


Temper & Temperance

by strangeandcharm



Series: Everything Is Awesome [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Consent Issues, Dark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Homophobia, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-02-21 14:19:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18704044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm
Summary: Sequel toEverything Is Awesome. In the wake of Castiel's decision, Dean is cast adrift. However, while he thinks what happened is hard to recover from, it's nothing compared to what faces him now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I normally try to avoid posting chapter-by-chapter if I haven't finished the entire fic, but it's taking me so long to write this one that I thought I'd post some chapters as I go, just to keep the momentum going. 
> 
> Thank you to everybody for your lovely comments on the previous parts.

* * *

Dean slept.

It was all he could do. He was chilled to the bone, aching all over and just couldn’t handle being awake any more. He stared at the unconscious Castiel beside him for as long as he could while his eyelids battled to stay open, his thoughts a whirl, and then he gave in. 

When he woke up, it was – to his amazement – the next morning. Glancing at his watch, confused, he realized he’d slept through most of a day and an entire night, which probably explained why he was ravenous. 

In fact, it was his stomach’s complaints about that very fact which eventually roused him.

“Sam?” he rasped, easing himself upright and rubbing sleep out of his eyes – his _eyes_ , back in his head, and he felt a momentary thrill of delight at the thought. He looked beside him but Castiel wasn’t there, and that was all he noticed before Sam appeared from nowhere and pushed a cheese sandwich under his nose. 

“Here,” said his brother. “Figured you needed it.”

Dean grunted, snatched it and wolfed it down without a word, swallowing so fast he nearly choked. Sam handed him a bottle of water and watched, apparently amused, as Dean gulped down half its contents in one go. 

Then, and only then, did Dean look up at him. “Where’s Cas?” he asked, between coughing up a few crumbs.

“Back at the car,” Sam said after a small but noticeable pause, his expression darkening a little. 

Dean scowled. “He okay? Did he heal?”

“Yeah, he’s almost back to a hundred per cent. He healed you while you were asleep, too – you were on the verge of losing some toes.”

Dean looked down at his bare feet and wriggled them. They were warm. In fact, his whole body felt perfectly toasty. He was covered in dried mud and his head felt a little foggy, but it was nothing that a good bath and some more food wouldn’t fix. 

Somehow, he’d survived that damn Sluagh. It all seemed like a dream now. A really bad one, with a godawful musical soundtrack and lots of confusing, nonsensical moments. There were bits he couldn’t remember too clearly – such as leaping off the cliff – and things he never wanted to think about again, most notably the sight of those tentacles coming towards his eyes and... well, what had happened next. And that was without what the Sluagh had shown him–

A cold shiver suddenly ran down Dean’s spine. It came back to him then: being forced to watch Castiel fucking the Sluagh with Dean’s body; how Castiel had enjoyed it, how he’d responded to _Dean_ ; how Castiel had reacted when the Sluagh had died, and – with a lurch – what he had said to him the previous day before he’d passed out. 

He looked back up at Sam and raised his eyebrows, swallowing hard. 

“Cas say anything to you?” he asked, realizing that the concerned look on his brother’s face could be related to that. But surely Castiel wouldn’t have told him the details? This was just between them, right? It was too personal for Castiel to talk to anybody else about.

Sam just put his hands in his coat pockets and shook his head. “He said he probably shouldn’t be here when you woke up, but he wouldn’t explain why. Did you guys have a fight?”

Dean snorted, feeling a surge of anger at the matter-of-fact way Castiel had effectively told him they were through. “Something like that.” 

“How the hell did you find time to fall out with all that crap going on?”

“Don’t look at me.” Dean rolled his legs over the side of the bed. “It’s his problem, not mine. Apparently he’s still got some shit to work through.”

Sam tilted his head. “What kind of shit?”

Dean paused for a moment, collecting this thoughts. Yeah, he felt angry. He felt betrayed. He felt abandoned. He even felt a little pathetic – if what Castiel suspected was true, then all this time he hadn’t wanted to have sex with Dean at all; he’d been turned on by a carbon-copy. A ghost. A clone. So where did that leave the real thing? 

But of course it wasn’t really Castiel’s fault. He loved Dean, no matter what some dumb twig-and-crow fairy had done to him; he loved him, and always had. Dean didn’t doubt that. He knew it. He _felt_ it. Sex complicated matters, but Castiel had worked through sexual issues before. Dean was certain that Castiel would be by his side again soon as though nothing had happened.

“It’s kinda private,” he told his brother, standing up. “We’ll work it out, though.”

 

* * *

 

But when they reached the car an hour later, Castiel and his bags were gone.

 

* * *

 

Dean spent the next few days moping. He felt he was perfectly justified in moping, actually, given what had happened. One minute he’d been in a relationship that had been years in the making, one that had somehow survived not only trauma and heartbreak but death itself – on each side, and more than once, too – and the next it was all gone. 

He hadn’t even done anything wrong, and yet it was still his fault in a weird, twisted way. The Sluagh had used his body in one of its nasty games and now Castiel was torn between how _fake_ -Dean had made him feel and how _real_ -Dean made him feel. It was hilarious, really. Dean wondered if anybody else in the history of humanity had ever had anything so ridiculous happen to them. There weren’t that many who’d had relationships with angels, either, but this? This was nuts. 

Perhaps it would’ve been better if the Sluagh had carried on living; if they’d somehow avoided it completely and carried on, oblivious. One day, perhaps, it would have died, and then Castiel would have remembered when the amnesia spell broke and his memories returned. But perhaps the damn thing would’ve lived forever without their interference, and then none of this would be happening, and Dean and Castiel would be as happy as they’d ever been in their lives, and all would be right with the world.

If they hadn’t met the Sluagh, though, it would still be killing innocent people. 

And Dean wouldn’t have found out about the box in his head.

It bugged him. Castiel had said that if Dean had known of its existence he would have picked at it like a scab, and Dean could understand why now. The thought that there were forty years of Hell-memories wrapped up in his mind was bizarre, and he couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck was in there: what could Alastair have done to him that was worse than what he remembered? He _already_ remembered what felt like forty years of torture and pain – how could there be more? How had Castiel decided which memories could stay with him and which had to be locked away? 

And there was also a very real fear that, some day, the box would break somehow and a tsunami of memories would destroy him in one huge, terrifying burst. 

After Dean had considered this for a while, he was struck by the fact that this was, essentially, what had happened to Castiel when the Sluagh died. 

Once that occurred to him, Castiel’s absence was a lot easier to understand.

He still didn’t have to like it, though. And every time he called Castiel’s number and he didn’t answer, he didn’t like that, either.

 

* * *

 

It was obvious that Sam wanted to know what had happened. He respected Dean’s privacy as much as he could, but his face kept getting that “empathetic” look Dean knew so well, and he asked how Dean was doing about twenty times a day. His attempts to make him feel better were useless but heartfelt – a freezer suddenly stocked full of pie; plenty of beer in the fridge; silly little things like doing all of Dean’s laundry. Which was fine, except that Dean needed distractions, and every time he thought something like “Maybe I’ll go clean the Impala,” he’d head down to the garage and discover her spotless. Sam was always one step ahead of him, and he also kept shooting Dean sad, enquiring looks that were starting to drive him nuts.

He threw his energies into finding another hunt, but there was nothing going on. It was as though everything had been put on hold while Dean wallowed in his misery. 

And then, one week after they’d returned from the forest, Dean was half-drunk, sitting at the table in the library browsing police reports on his laptop, when he heard a completely unexpected noise.

“ _Mee-row.”_

He turned, surprised, and looked down. 

A small black-and-white cat was standing by the door to the room, its tail held high. 

“What the hell...?” Dean spluttered, shocked. “How did you get in?”

The cat’s bright green eyes blinked, then it walked over to him calmly. Dean reached down and tickled its head; the cat responded by headbutting his hand, then winding around the chair legs coquettishly. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Dean told it, enjoying the softness of its fur. “You know that, right? This isn’t your house. You’ve broken in. You’re a little cat burglar. Naughty kitty.”

“Who are you talking to?” Sam entered from the kitchen with a cup of coffee. He spotted their feline visitor a moment later and gawped. “What the hell? How did that get in?”

“I just asked him that,” Dean said, leaning down further to tickle the cat’s belly as it unexpectedly decided to roll over. “Or maybe he is a she, actually. I’m not an expert, but there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of junk down here.”

The cat didn’t even flinch as Sam – who must’ve seemed Godzilla-sized to her – fell to his knees beside the table and began to share tickle duties. She paused a moment to sniff his fingers, then gave his palm a quick headbutt and rolled again, purring loudly.

“She’s a friendly little thing,” Sam said, grinning. 

“She’s a diva,” Dean said. “I like her. Did you let her in?”

“I don’t think so, unless she used an invisibility cloak to get past me.”

“Then we have a problem, because there’s no kitty door in this bunker. So that must mean there’s a way inside the building that we haven’t blocked off. And if we don’t know about it, something else could.”

Sam sat back on his heels. “The bunker’s airtight. We know that, we nearly suffocated in here once. There’s no way this cat could get in unless one of us let her in.”

“Maybe she hitched a ride in the car?”

“Maybe.”

The cat chirruped, seemingly thrilled to have two sets of hands stroking her at once, purring so loudly that it made Dean chuckle. “I’m going to call you Betsy,” he said.

“Dean, you can’t name her. This is someone else’s cat.”

“Not any more. She’s adopted us. Look! She loves us. You love us, don’t you, Betsy?”

Betsy rolled again, her legs and tail flailing. Dean wasn’t used to being around animals and so he had no idea if all cats acted like this, but it was adorable. 

Sam tickled the cat’s ears. “We need to follow her and see what she does when she wants to leave. We have to find out if there’s a way into the bunker that a demon could use.”

“You’re not going to leave, are you, Betsy? You’re going to stay forever and ever.”

Betsy meowed, then lifted a front paw and licked between her toes as though something on them was offending her. Dean watched, fascinated by the white-and-black pads on her feet. 

“They’re like little beans,” he said, wonderingly.

There was a silence. He looked up to find Sam staring at him with a goofy grin. “What?”

“It’s good to see you smile again,” Sam said. 

Dean moved his eyes to the cat, embarrassed. “Yeah, well. Things have been shit all round recently, but unless this little lady is carrying some kind of curse, she’s definitely good for the soul.”

Sam stroked Betsy under the chin. Her eyes closed in contentment as she lifted her head, still purring. “I hope she’s housetrained.”

“Cats are supposed to be smart, aren’t they? I’ll train her to pee in your bed.”

“Very funny.”

“I was being serious.”

Betsy carried on purring.

 

* * *

 

The cat didn’t seem inclined to leave, particularly after Dean – against Sam’s objections – fed her some chicken. After an hour or so, she curled up on an armchair in a perfect ‘O’ shape, her head tucked under a paw. 

“We should wake her up and kick her out,” Sam observed, frowning. “If we follow her, we can find out how she got in. Also, if it _was_ one of us who let her in, she’ll be trapped here all night. We don’t have a litter tray. It could get messy.”

“Aw, let her sleep. Look how comfy she is.”

Despite Sam’s practicality he was still completely seduced by her cuteness, and so they left her alone. Later that day, however, she disappeared. Dean searched the bunker but found no sign of her, although – to be fair – the place did have a lot of hiding places for something cat-sized.

“I guess we’ll just have to see if she comes back,” he told Sam, feeling oddly disappointed. It was just a cat, but she’d really lifted his spirits. He’d heard once that stroking a pet could lower blood pressure and stress levels, which he could easily believe after their interactions that morning.

Sam shrugged, the cat already forgotten. He was hunting for a case on his laptop, that familiar, laser-focused look on his face. 

“Hey,” said Dean, suddenly feeling as though he should acknowledge the elephant in the bunker.

His brother looked up. 

“Thanks.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “For what?”

“For... you know. Everything. This week.”

Sam sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Are you gonna tell me what happened?”

Dean leant on a pillar, staring down at his fingernails. “Let’s just say Cas remembered the last time he met the Sluagh, and it made him rethink a few things.”

“But he hasn’t even been in touch. Is he... is he _blaming_ you in some way?”

Dean paused, feeling unwanted resentment surge through him. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. That’s why this whole thing is so shitty. It was that fucking creature, getting in his head. But it’s over now, anyway.”

Sam seemed to realize that Dean didn’t want to reveal any more, and rubbed a hand down his face. “So will he come back, do you think?” 

When Dean didn’t answer, suddenly struck by a wave of unexpected grief, Sam continued: “You two were really good together. You need to fix this.”

“Yeah,” Dean said roughly. “Maybe the next time he actually answers one of my calls I’ll pass on your message.”

He went to bed, leaving Sam staring at the door in his wake. 

 

* * *

 

 _He couldn’t see. His eyes were gone and they hurt, they really fucking hurt, and yet somehow there were tentacles right in front of him and he could see_ them _. He screamed, trying to back away, but the creature wrapped itself around him, poking his skin with twigs and branches, oozing and pulsating against his body. He screamed again and struggled, but after what seemed like hours he still couldn’t escape and the darkness was all-consuming._

_And then, from nowhere, there was light. He could see. He was watching Castiel on the bed, his chains stretched tight, moaning and gasping in ecstasy as the Sluagh rode him, rippling and changing shape every few seconds. Dean watched in absolute horror, almost wishing his eyes were gone again, but he could see everything perfectly – the tendons straining in Castiel’s neck as he lifted his head from the pillow, the blue flash of his eyes, his expression radiating lust and a wild, unnatural ferocity. Dean watched as sweat rolled down his cheek and landed on the sheets, then reluctantly shifted his gaze to the Sluagh – who was now Dean._

_It was him. It was him sitting on Castiel, being fucked by Castiel, his body as tight and tense as a statue, his mouth open and moaning in time to Castiel’s desperate cries. Dean watched as they moved faster and faster, rutting like wild animals, completely in tune with each other and yet wrong, so_ wrong _._

_He tried to speak, tried to tell them that they needed to stop, but then Castiel screamed and bucked upwards, jerking uncontrollably, and the Sluagh/Dean turned to Dean and reached out a mass of tentacles that whipped towards him and jabbed into his eyes–_

Dean woke with a shriek, bolting upright in bed and scrambling backwards until he hit the wall. He could feel those things in his eyes, he could feel the pain again! He could... he could... no, no, wait, he couldn’t. _It had been a dream._ But the fear was still all-consuming, and it was all he could do to reach out in the darkness and stab at the switch on his bedside lamp, praying that he would be able to see when it came on.

He could see.

He was safe. He was in bed in the bunker, and he was alone.

“Fuck,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. That had been intense. He’d had a lot of bad dreams over the years, particularly after his years in Hell, but it had been a while since he’d had one that visceral – clearly because the events were still so fresh in his mind. He rubbed his eyes, thanking them for being there, and then looked up in surprise as his door slowly swung open.

For a moment, he thought it was Sam come to check on him, but a second later there was a faint _mew_ and Betsy had jumped onto the mattress. He watched, still half-asleep, as she walked up the bed to reach his side, purring all the way.

“Were you spying on me?” he asked her, reaching out a trembling hand and tickling her neck. 

In true Betsy fashion she was on her back a moment later, rolling and purring and demanding tummy tickles. Dean obliged, trying not to think about anything except how soft and warm she felt against his fingers, and after a few minutes he had recovered enough to feel normal again. 

That stuff he’d heard about stroking and stress levels had been right. Betsy was essentially a walking Valium.

“So did you go back home or did you stay here?” he asked her. “Were you hiding?”

She mewed, headbutting his hand. Dean found himself grinning. “I’m glad you’re here,” he told her. “You can sleep on my bed if you want. But I’m tellin’ ya this: you better not have fleas.”

 

* * *

 

He fed Betsy some bacon the next morning, watching her contemplatively as she struggled to chew it while purring at the same time. He hadn’t slept much after the dream – even with the cat curled happily on his chest, purring like some kind of relaxing engine – and for once he was actually awake before Sam. 

It still felt weird to sleep without Castiel beside him, even though most of the time Castiel hadn’t actually slept, being an angel and all. They’d only been together for a few weeks, so it was ridiculous, really, that Dean had already become so used to his presence. As cute as Betsy was, she just wasn’t the same.

His phone rang. He looked down at it... and his stomach did a backflip.

“Cas?” he answered, picking it up with hands that were already trembling. 

“Hello, Dean.”

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Somewhere quiet,” came the reply. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

There was a pause. 

“...And?” Dean asked, full of trepidation.

“I think I need a little longer, Dean. I am sorry.”

Dean closed his eyes, the sympathy in Castiel’s voice rattling him. “You do know this isn’t fair on me, right?” he said without thinking. It was insensitive, he knew it; Castiel had been through so much, and Dean had always been supportive, but right now he could only think about how wretched he’d been feeling. 

“I know this is unfair, but there’s nothing–”

Dean cut him off. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Cas,” he snapped, trying not to lose his temper. “You just disappeared and now I’m here all alone and I have no idea if you’re ever coming back. It wasn’t me – you know that, right? It was that damn Sluagh and I had nothing to do with it. But it feels like you don’t think that.”

“It’s complicated,” Castiel said, infuriatingly calm.

“Oh, it’s complicated, is it? Well, thanks for letting me know that. I would never have guessed.”

“I understand that you’re angry, Dean. But I can’t help how I feel.”

Dean fell silent, gnawing his lip. His anger really wasn’t constructive, but he couldn’t help himself.

“I... I need more time,” said Castiel. “What happened to me during my imprisonment was difficult for me to recover from, but I did. I am hopeful that I can work through this, too.”

“You did that with my help,” Dean pointed out.

“I know, and I am grateful. But this time... I need you out of my life. Just for a while. You bring back too many...” He stopped, apparently struggling for words. 

“Cas– ”

“I do love you,” said Castiel forcefully, and the line went dead. 

Dean stared at his phone for a long time, fighting tears and fury all at the same time, until he heard an ominous sound and jumped to his feet. 

Betsy had thrown up on the floor by the fridge. Now she sat smugly beside the wet puddle of goo, licking a paw.

Dean was already angry, but this was too much. “Nobody wastes bacon in my house,” he snapped, scooping her up from the floor. 

He carried her to the main door, dropped her in the mud outside and went back in, almost shutting the cat in the door as she tried to follow. 

“No more bunker for you, you ungrateful hussy,” he called, and pretended he hadn’t noticed that it was raining out there.

 

* * *

 

After that, Dean was in a foul mood. He knew, rationally, that he should give Castiel time, but he missed him and it _wasn’t his damn fault_ that he needed the time in the first place. The injustice of it was what was driving him nuts, and the more he dwelled on it, the angrier he got.

Which meant that when Sam walked into the kitchen and took the last beer from the fridge, Dean bitched at him about it.

“Whoa, calm down,” Sam replied, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “I can run to the store for some more, don’t worry.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Dean snapped, stalking out of the room.

He ended up in his bedroom, staring into space, the events of the past few weeks playing around and around inside his head. Everything had happened so fast – he couldn’t believe how quickly it was possible for someone’s life to change. Castiel had been gone, then he’d been back, then he’d been _his_ , and now he was gone again. It hurt, but maybe he was over-reacting. Maybe he needed to calm down. 

Yeah. He was being a bit of a dick. He didn’t want to: hell, he wanted to lash out, he wanted to kick things, he wanted to scream and slap people and punch a few walls. But that wasn’t helping anybody, was it? Least of all the cat, who was probably sitting in a puddle right now, wondering why that nice man had suddenly kicked her outside. Or Sam, who had been nothing but awesome to him the past few days, and whose head he’d just bitten off.

And so, an hour later, when Sam opened the door and offered him a fresh beer, Dean looked up at him with an apology on his lips.

Sam simply grinned and smashed the bottle over Dean’s head.

 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

There were flashes of movement. Bright lights. The sound of Sam laughing, but nobody laughing with him. Dean felt himself being carried, although he kept fading out and it didn’t feel real. Then he was in a chair and something odd was happening to his wrists and ankles, but he couldn’t seem to focus enough to open his eyes. His face was wet; something was dripping from his hairline, and he could smell beer. Had he been drinking? Was he still drunk?

“There you are, brother Dean,” came Sam’s voice. He sounded weird. “Now, stay. I am afeared you will not live to see me again, but life is full of tragedy and torment, is it not?”

And then he was gone, and Dean sighed and passed out.

 

* * *

 

The next time he woke up, he realized he was in serious trouble. 

He was covered in blood and beer, his scalp stinging and his head aching from the bottle-blow to his head. More importantly, however, he was rope-tied to the chair in the center of the Devil’s Trap in the dungeon. The door was closed, he was alone... 

...and Sam was the one who’d put him there.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, trying to collect his woozy thoughts. 

_Sam had attacked him!_

For a moment Dean remembered how grumpy he’d been with his brother when he’d sent him out for beer; was this revenge? But then he shoved the thought out of his head for being ludicrous and focused on what he _did_ know: Sam had left the bunker, which meant that something could have attacked him – possessed him, cursed him, placed a spell on him, stolen his body; whatever it had been, the Sam that had tied him to this chair wasn’t his brother. 

Dean had no clue what had happened, but he did know that it meant Sam was in danger. _He had to get out of there and find him._

 

* * *

 

Several hours of painful, desperate struggling later, Dean finally realized that he wasn’t going anywhere.

 

* * *

 

He was getting thirsty. 

There was no way to know how long he’d been tied up, but by the feel of his mouth it was at least half a day, if not more. He was stiffening up now, his buttocks numb and his feet and hands tingling dangerously. His back was aching and his eyes were sore from the beer that had poured into them earlier. 

And still, he couldn’t escape.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t a demon. Dean’s brain had been working furiously, trying to make up for the fact he couldn’t move his body, and he’d deduced that if Sam had been able to put him in this chair, he’d been able to move past the Devil’s Trap on the floor. 

So that meant one thing: he wasn’t demon-possessed.

In which case, what the hell was controlling him? Was it actually a shapeshifter? Something else that could mimic human form?

 

* * *

 

He was really fucking thirsty now.

 

* * *

 

He slept for what felt like a long time, still woozy from the blow to his head, but when he woke up his thirst was so all-encompassing that he knew his situation was life-or-death. How long could a human last without water? Two days? Three? How long had it been already? A day? A day and a half? He couldn’t tell. 

That thing had left him there to die – he had no doubt about that. 

The bunker had been quiet for the whole time he’d been in there, with just the usual soft _hum_ of its systems whirring in the distance. No one was due to visit or even check-in by phone. Nobody would know he was missing. Castiel would probably call eventually and start to get worried when Dean never picked up – although perhaps, given their last conversation, he’d simply think that Dean was deliberately ignoring him. Once he finally was suspicious, he’d have to call Sam to find out what was going on, and–

_Shit._ Whatever had taken Sam could lure Castiel into a trap. 

Hell, it could lure anybody they knew into a trap.

“Fuuuck!” Dean yelled, his voice cracked and hoarse.

There was no response. 

 

* * *

 

He couldn’t remember what it felt like to have hands and feet. His were numb and lifeless, strangled by inactivity and the ropes stretched so tightly around them. Every now and then he’d get a cramp in his arms or legs, agony so intense he’d almost pass out from it. And the whole time he sat there, his head ached so hard it felt as though it was going to explode. 

However, the pain of his body, forced to sit for so long without moving, was nothing compared to the dryness of his mouth and throat. His tongue felt twice its normal size and every time he moved it, it seemed to stick to his palate or his teeth; it was like having something foreign in his mouth, something that wasn’t his. He cried, but tears wouldn’t come, and he was struck at one point by the thought that the whole time he’d been there he hadn’t needed to urinate at all, which was both a relief and worrying, because it meant that something had gone horribly wrong inside his body. 

How long had it been? Two days? 

He was starting to hallucinate colors and symbols. They were pretty.

 

* * * 

 

He prayed to Castiel. He didn’t think Castiel could hear him; he was too tired, too confused to remember what the deal was with the whole ‘praying’ thing these days. But he tried anyway, because he needed somebody to know that Sam was in trouble. He couldn’t form words any more, but he figured thoughts would do just as well. 

_Please, Cas, you gotta help him, he’s been possessed or something, I don’t know, and he’s gone. He’s locked me up and I don’t know where he is. I know we had our differences and I know I was a dick to you but please, Cas, you gotta come and look for him, and also I’m really fucking thirsty and I think I’m gonna die, so please, Cas, you gotta come back..._

He passed out. When he woke up again, he prayed some more, but he wasn’t sure he was making much sense. And then he passed out again.

 

* * *

 

There was nothing but the thirst. Dean was shaking, delirious, out of his head, and all he could focus on was the agony of not being able to drink cool, delicious water. 

He hallucinated a waterfall in one corner of the room, one that had rainbows and fucking seagulls flying around it, and then he tried to cry again because he knew Sam was in trouble and he was going to die like this, tied to a chair in a room in his own damn home from something as wretched as _thirst_. 

This wasn’t going down fighting. This was humiliating.

 

* * *

 

And it was so fucking _slow_.

 

* * *

 

“Dean? Sam?”

There was a voice.

He was hallucinating again. 

“Dean? Are you here?”

Footsteps, outside the door.

“Hello? Anyone?”

Dean’s eyes widened. It was real. It was Castiel.

He opened his mouth to call to him, but of course nothing came out; the very air in his throat was dust. He tried to move the chair, to scrape the legs on the floor, anything, but he was too weak. 

_Cas!_ he prayed with all his might.

The footsteps disappeared. Dean heard him calling again, sounding much further away, and a terror hit him that Castiel would have a look around the bunker and then leave. Of course he would have no reason to check every room. He’d leave Dean to die without even realizing it. 

No. No. No, this couldn’t happen. He was so close!

_PLEASE, Cas!_ he prayed. _I’m in the dungeon! Please don’t go! CAS!_

Everything was quiet again. Dean listened for a long time, trying to hear above the blood rushing in his ears, but there was nothing.

His cracked lips moved. “Cas,” he said silently, and his head fell forward, blackness swirling around him.

 

* * *

 

He woke up lying flat on what felt like a bed. His entire body was tingling and he was so thirsty that the pain of it hit him like a brick wall. His eyes weren’t focusing and there was a bright, painful light that he wanted to flinch away from, but he couldn’t seem to get his body to follow his commands.

“Water...” he begged, but no sound left his lips.

The light faded. A moment later, someone’s hand was on the back of his head, lifting it upwards, and then there was a bottle held to his lips and _water, sweet fucking water_. He gulped it down so desperately that he nearly choked, almost breathing it into his lungs and coughing it up again, but he didn’t care and carried on until the bottle was empty. Before he could even mourn its loss he was gulping down another, but that one was taken away before it was half-empty.

“That’s all for now,” said a familiar voice. “I am fairly certain that if you have any more, you will vomit. You can drink more later.”

The hand put his head back down again. Dean finally gathered enough of his wits to work on clearing his vision, and as his eyes focused he realized that he was in his own bed and Castiel was sitting on the edge of it, staring down at him with a worried expression.

“Cas?” he croaked.

“I’ve healed you as far as I can, but you will have to replace your lost fluids yourself,” said Castiel. “Your body will respond better that way.”

Dean was still woozy, but he knew that something was wrong. He was _sure_ he’d heard Castiel leaving, so how was he here now? “You...” he rasped. “You... How did... you find me?”

Castiel looked across the room. Dean followed his gaze and saw Betsy sitting on a chair, her tail tucked primly around her feet, blinking at him sleepily.

“Marigold led me to the dungeon door,” Castiel said. “She said you were inside. Without her I am afraid to say I would have left. I had no idea anybody was here.”

“M-Marigold?”

“Her name. Or the nearest approximation I can make to it with a human tongue, anyway.”

Dean frowned, dimly remembering a time, many years ago, when Castiel had apparently talked to a cat in a care home during a case they’d been working. “You understood her?” he asked, his mind still bleary. 

“Feline is a simple language, but you have to be careful not to annoy them.” Castiel leaned forward conspiratorially. “Cats hold grudges.” He leaned back again, studying Dean thoughtfully. “Who did this to you? Where is Sam?”

Dean tried to swallow. His throat felt much better now, but the stab of horror that hit him as he remembered what had happened almost made him nauseous. “It was him,” he said, struggling to sit upright. “Sam locked me in there. Except it wasn’t him – he sounded different, crazy. I mean, he even said the word ‘afeard’. And then he just left me.” He licked his lips, remembering being so hideously thirsty that it felt like death was just around the corner. “Whatever it was, it wanted me to die slow and hard,” he said bitterly.

“Demonic possession?”

“No. He put me on the chair and it’s inside a Devil’s Trap.”

“Something else, then.” Castiel looked away, his expression troubled. “You weren’t answering your calls, and neither was he. When I arrived here I saw both your phones on the table and realized something was wrong. I thought you had both been kidnapped and taken away.”

Dean groaned. “He left his phone? Dammit, I was hoping I could trace it and find him.” He processed the bad news for a few moments, then managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He looked up at Castiel. “Thanks for coming back. And for healing me... Again. You should start charging me for your services or something.” 

Before Castiel could reply, Dean leaned over and stretched out a hand to the cat. “And thank you, too. I’m sorry I put you out in the rain, Marigold.” He paused. “Though I gotta say, I prefer Betsy.”

The cat sniffed his finger regally, then butted it with her cheek. She chirruped.

“She says you are welcome to call her Betsy if you wish,” Castiel translated, his face serious, as though interpreting for pets was a totally normal thing. The cat made another sound. “She also asks if you have any more bacon.”

“Sorry, kitty, maybe later. I have to find my brother.” Dean stood, managing to get his balance without any help, and took a deep, steadying breath. “Come on, Cas, Sam needs us.”

 

* * * 

 

They tried everything they could think of. They called friends, fellow hunters, law-enforcement contacts: no help. Sam hadn’t taken the Impala or any of their other cars, so Dean couldn’t use traffic cams, but he did run some facial-recognition software they’d managed to liberate from the British Men of Letters. It yielded nothing.

In the end, after hitting a multitude of brick walls, Castiel gathered the ingredients for a spell to locate Sam, performing it while Dean watched in an agony of anticipation. But it didn’t work, and Castiel had no idea why.

And so, as much as he hated himself for doing it, Dean eventually bit the bullet and called someone who was an expert in such things.

“But it’s always so nice to hear from you, darling Dean,” said Rowena down the phone, the sarcasm so cutting it was almost a sentient, living creature in its own right. “You should never feel bad for disturbing little old me.”

“Yeah, well, we’re desperate,” Dean snapped, rubbing his eyes. Talking to Rowena was always a chore, but now her accent reminded him of the Sluagh, and so this time there was an edge that made it even less pleasurable. She was also a thoroughly nasty piece of work and he trusted her as much as he trusted Crowley – less so, even, as he hadn’t known her for as long – but there was no denying that she was immensely powerful. Whether she’d help him now or not remained to be seen, however.

“I can imagine you _are_ desperate, if your big hairy lug of a brother is in trouble,” she was saying. Dean could almost hear her smiling; could picture her eyelashes fluttering coquettishly. “However will you cope without him? You two make such a fine pair. Remove one and it’s just not the same, is it? Like losing your favorite shoe.”

“Rowena...”

“But what do you think I can do about it? If your angel friend couldn’t locate him... hello, Castiel, by the way. I do hope you’re feeling better now. I heard you were in a _bit_ of a pretty pickle for a wee while.”

Dean glanced over at Castiel, whose jaw had tensed. “We do not have time for your usual verbal sparring, Rowena,” he growled.

Her laugh tinkled through the speaker. “Och, down boy! You and that deep voice, _grrrr._ ”

“Look, please – we need to find Sam,” Dean interrupted, feeling tension-sweat prickling on his skin. 

“Yes, yes, yes, I do understand. But I must ask: have you checked in with my dear son at all?”

“We don’t think it’s a demon,” Castiel said.

“All well and good, but Fergus has his fingers in many pies. Never assume he’s innocent.” She paused. “The same goes for me, of course. Although not in this particular case. So, anyway – if I help you now, what’s in it for me?”

Dean sighed. “What do you want?”

“Och, many things. I’m just not sure you can afford me, darlings.”

“You can have an angel feather,” Castiel said suddenly.

There was a silence. Dean glanced at him, raising his eyebrows – clearly Castiel had decided to cut straight to the chase, no negotiation. He looked pained, but determined.

“That would be... acceptable,” said Rowena, her words clipped and formal. She sounded as though she was pleased and trying to hide it.

Dean covered the microphone with one hand. “What could a witch like Rowena do with an angel feather?”

“A lot.” Castiel shrugged. “But we have no choice, and I have one available.”

Dean rubbed his eyes again. He uncovered the microphone and said, “Deal. How long will this take?”

“Give me half an hour and I’ll call you back,” Rowena replied, and the line went dead.

 

* * *

 

When she called them back, it was to say the spell had failed again. She had no idea why; even if Sam had died, it should have shown his location. The fact it didn’t was as baffling to her as it was to Dean and Castiel – and she insisted that there was no way another spell could shield Sam from her scrying. 

He had completely disappeared.

 

* * *

 

“Rowena’s right, Cas. We need to see Crowley.”

Castiel was sitting at the kitchen table, gazing down at his hands. Dean stared at him expectantly, willing him to come up with some sort of solution, some answer to this horrible situation, because he’d exhausted everything he could think of and needed someone else to think of something new for him.

But Castiel just remained silent. 

“Hey,” Dean said, irritated. “I’m talking to you.”

Castiel looked up. “I already called him,” he announced calmly. “There was no reply.”

Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked down at it. No messages. He found Crowley’s number and dialed it himself. 

“ _Hello, you’ve reached the King of Hell,_ ” said the voicemail. “ _If you’re calling to report a rabid hellhound sighting, please press One. The chipmunk responsible for that has been flambéed, by the way. If you’re calling about a demon deal, press Two. If your call is angel-related, press Three. If you’re a Winchester, press Sixty-Nine. If you have another enquiry, I don’t care. Toodles._ ” 

Tentatively, gritting his teeth, Dean pressed ‘69’ on the phone screen. The call went through to a restaurant called The Angry Moose. 

Dean threw his phone on the table in disgust. “Dick.”

Castiel was staring into space. Dean studied him, wondering what he was thinking, and it suddenly occurred to him that they’d been searching for Sam for the best part of a day now and not once had Dean thought about their argument or their relationship or, hell, anything else about the past few months. With Sam’s life on the line, it just didn’t seem important. At this very moment he was able to look at Castiel and feel absolutely nothing except frustration.

_Where was Sam?_ That was all that mattered right now. It was an ache, deep in Dean’s DNA.

“It must be old,” Castiel murmured.

“What?”

“Whatever has Sam. You said it used the word ‘afeard’. That is archaic. It must be old.”

“Great, so we know it talks like William Shakespeare. How does that help us?”

Castiel glanced up at him, then looked away. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

Dean knew he should apologize for snapping at him, but he didn’t. He watched as Betsy jumped on the kitchen table and nudged at Castiel’s wrist, looking for strokes, and when Castiel obliged Dean stared at them both, unable to believe that his brother was out there somewhere, possibly in pain and traumatized, while he was standing in the kitchen watching Castiel play with a freakin’ _cat_.

“Marigold doesn’t like the human family she currently lives with,” Castiel said matter-of-factly. “They say she sheds too much. She is actually very meticulous in her upkeep and is remarkably offended by this accusation.” 

“I need some air,” Dean grunted, because he knew if he didn’t leave the room right the hell now he’d start screaming.

Even though it had been days since he last left the bunker, it was still raining outside.

 

* * *

 

Another day passed. Then another. Dean was going insane. He wanted to leave the bunker, to jump in the Impala and drive, searching for Sam on every road in America, but Castiel – in his usual frustratingly logical way – talked him out of it. He pointed out that they were already in the most central point in the country and, should a sighting come in, it would be better to be here than to risk being on the opposite coast. Dean chafed at his confinement, but he knew Castiel was right; he still hated it, though. 

There was no news. Sam’s face didn’t show up on their computers. Friends called to check in and get updates, but none of them had seen him. There was no strange supernatural activity to pinpoint a location. Crowley still wouldn’t return Dean’s calls. Rowena did another spell – grudgingly, as she complained that she hadn’t received her angel feather yet – but Sam just _wasn’t there._

Dean couldn’t sleep. He stalked the bunker day and night, running his hands through his hair or balling his fists as he paced. He cleaned his guns, checked his kit, cleaned Sam’s guns and checked his kit. He searched the bunker over and over, wondering if whatever had been inside Sam had taken anything or left booby traps, but he found nothing wrong. He tried to sleep again and couldn’t. 

Mostly, he wanted to drink. Badly. But he also knew that he might have to drop everything at a moment’s notice and drive for hours to get to his brother, and so he didn’t want to be drunk. However, at the same time as his logical side was telling him that, the side that was angry and grieving and helpless wanted to get _obliterated._

He considered drinking anyway and asking Castiel to sober him up with his angelic powers before he drove, but that felt weirdly humiliating, so he didn’t. Also, he needed to be sharp right now. He couldn’t be drunk. He just couldn’t.

He also needed sleep. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

Through it all, Castiel was there. He stayed by Dean’s side, he made him food, he researched – although what the hell he was researching, Dean had no clue, because they had so little to go on. He would remain silent for hours, then say something just as Dean was starting to feel himself go loopy that would bring him back down to earth again. He didn’t look at Dean with pity or sympathy; he just calmly got on with the business of failing to find Sam. 

They didn’t touch each other. Dean didn’t even notice at first, but after a few days he realized Castiel had gone out of his way to avoid being too close to him. He told himself it was probably out of consideration for the fact Dean had other things on his mind right now, but he also wondered if Castiel was still so freaked out by the Sluagh’s memories that he couldn’t bear to be near him physically.

He didn’t dwell on it for too long, though. He was too worried about his brother.

At one point Castiel disappeared. Dean was dozing, head-down on a table, and when he opened his eyes again the bunker was empty. Puzzled, he searched every room, then called Castiel’s phone: no answer. After an hour had passed he started to worry – had Castiel been possessed too? Had he left him the way Sam had left him? 

Then the cat suddenly headbutted his ankle and he looked down in surprise.

“Where is he, Betsy?” he asked, feeling faintly ridiculous. “Is he safe?”

Betsy looked up at him seriously.

“Is he in danger? Give me one headbutt for yes, two for no.”

Betsy lowered her head and nudged him twice on the shin. Dean had absolutely no idea if it was coincidence or if the cat actually did understand him, but the action calmed him a little anyway. Bending, he picked her up and tickled her chin absent-mindedly, feeling her purr. “I still don’t know how you get in here,” he muttered, rubbing his nose in her fur. “When Cas gets back, I’ll get him to ask you.”

Betsy mewed, her paws opening and closing. Dean held her for a long time, too exhausted to think about anything except how it was nice to hold something so warm and soft; his brain felt as though it had reached overload and needed a time-out.

And then the door to the bunker clanged. Blinking out of his reverie, Dean darted over to it in time to see Castiel walking down the steps.

“Where the hell were you?” he snapped, placing the cat on the floor. Suddenly the very idea of Castiel leaving him alone during this time of crisis had him on edge.

“On a futile mission,” Castiel replied, sounding tired. “I went to talk to Heaven. They weren’t very helpful.”

Dean scowled. “You didn’t think to let me know first?”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up.” He reached the bottom step and stopped, putting his hands in the pockets of his coat and sighing. “I’m sorry, Dean, I tried. They don’t know where Sam is either.”

Dean turned away, clenching his fists. Even the angels refused to help. Everything had gone to hell. He could hear his heart pounding inside his ears. He felt trapped, like he was drowning. 

_Maybe he’d never see Sam again._

“Dean?”

“We’re useless,” he said through gritted teeth. “Both of us. Fucking useless. I’m his brother and I can’t find him. You’re an angel and you’re about as useful as... as...” He looked down at Betsy, “...this cat! Sam could be being tortured right now, he could be lying dead somewhere, and we’re stuck in this bunker, staring at the walls, doing nothing.”

“That cat saved your life, Dean,” Castiel said, his voice dropping an octave lower. “And we will find him. Do not lose hope.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean cried. “And how long does he have to wait for us to find him, Cas? Another week? A month? _Six_ months?”

“I waited five years.”

Dean froze, stung. He looked over at Castiel, who met his gaze with a carefully blank expression. 

There was a long, tension-filled silence, and then Betsy stretched impressively at their feet and meowed.

Castiel blinked. He pulled his eyes away from Dean’s and looked down at her. “She says it’s a secret,” he said, and frowned. “What is? What’s a secret?”

Betsy scratched behind an ear with her back leg. She made a small, comical-sounding _mew_ and glanced up at Dean.

“She says she’s not going to tell you how she enters the bunker.”

Dean felt as though the floor was shifting under him. This was his life now. A screwed-up angel and a talking cat. 

“Tell her she can kiss my ass,” he grunted. 

Castiel looked scandalized. “I’m not telling her that, Dean. Although she can no doubt guess it from your tone. You should probably apologize – she was only being playful.”

But Dean was beyond giving a crap about anything right now; he was tired and he was angry and this was absolutely insane – he’d lost his brother and yet Castiel was more concerned about the feelings of a stray _cat?_

“You’re a regular Ace Ventura, aren’t you?” he pointed out, jabbing a finger at him. “Talking to the animals. Understanding what they want. But what about the humans, huh? Why can’t you find Sam? What’s the point of having an angel on my side if you can’t find Sam?”

Castiel’s face fell. “Dean, I’m doing my best.”

“Yeah, well, your best isn’t good enough, Cas. It never fucking is.” Dean felt rage pour down his spine, overwhelming him, spurred on by his fear for Sam and lack of sleep. A little voice inside his head told him he was being unfair, but then the memory of how Castiel had walked out on him suddenly surfaced and the anger from that, which had almost disappeared over the past few days, unexpectedly became white-hot inside him. And that was it: suddenly he was yelling, beside himself with fury, completely losing control as he vented his pain. 

“You’re a fucking angel, Cas, an angel, and you can’t do shit,” he shouted, the words coming out in one long rush. “You have all these God-given powers and you can’t find _one fucking human_ for me. You’re a mess, you’ve always been a mess, I’m always clearing up your shit and trying to save you and you’re never fucking there when I need you.”

_He saved your life just a few days ago, you moron._

Dean faltered for a few seconds, realizing that he was being completely irrational, but he was too furious to stop now; logic went out the window in the face of the anger burning through him. “Sammy’s out there somewhere and we can’t find him,” he yelled, dimly noticing the cat darting out of the room. “What if we never find him? We’d better find him or I swear to God, Cas... if I never see him again I will tear this world apart trying to find out what did this to him. I will find it and I will tie it to a fucking bed with those fucking chains and manacles of yours and I will make what happened to you seem like a fucking vacation. I swear it on my _life._ ”

Castiel took a step backwards, almost stumbling on the staircase. His face paled and he looked at Dean as though he had never seen him before. Dean studied him for a few seconds, his heart racing, his palms sweaty, breathing hard. _Why the fuck was he yelling at Castiel? What had Castiel done to deserve this?_ But as he considered how unjust he was being, another wave of fury hit him and this time he lashed out, sweeping an entire shelf of books onto the floor with a yell, kicking the wooden bookcase. He tugged at it but it was nailed to the wall, so he punched it instead. 

Pain flared in his hand but he ignored it; it wasn’t important. Nothing was important except his brother.

“Screw all of this,” he growled, and stalked away. 

Let the angel and the cat to talk about him behind his back. He didn’t care. 

All he cared about was Sam.

 

* * *

 

Dean came out of his room a few hours later. He’d tried to sleep, but adrenaline was still pumping through his system and it was enough to keep him wide awake despite how bone-tired he was. By the time he wandered into the kitchen to find some coffee, he felt godawful: cold, miserable and weary, although given that he was someone sadly familiar with the concept of endless sleepless nights, it wasn’t exactly new to him. It was also a million times better than he’d felt when Castiel had found him in the dungeon a few days beforehand – and as that thought popped into his head, a rush of guilt swept over him. 

He’d accused Castiel of being useless. Of all the ridiculous, shitty, plainly untrue things to say. What was wrong with him? 

He’d crossed a line. He knew he had. He wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t cruel – not like this, not usually. But at the time, all he’d felt was fury and he’d desperately needed someone or something to yell at. Castiel had just been standing there in front of him. An innocent victim. 

Castiel was trying to find Sam too; he was working just as hard as Dean was. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t uncover any leads. He’d gone to Heaven to try to help and it wasn’t his fault that nothing had come of that, either. 

_I’m doing my best,_ he’d said, and Dean closed his eyes, awash in a sea of shame, because in the end that’s all Castiel ever did, and Dean had so often failed to see that. Castiel could have left at any time. Castiel was only there because he loved Dean – and he loved Sam too, because they were a family. And yet he’d treated him like... like that. He’d called him names; he’d even mentioned that bed and the manacles, using them as a weapon against him. Fuck. Surely that was unforgivable? 

Castiel had a high tolerance for Dean treating him badly – he thought back, ruefully, to all the insults he’d thrown his way during their long friendship – but it wasn’t often that they’d been accompanied by this kind of vitriol. And for once in his life, he hadn’t even been drunk. There was no excuse, not really.

Dean hadn’t actually been raging at him, though. He’d been angry at whatever had taken Sam. He hoped Castiel realized that. Either way, however, he really needed to apologize. 

But when he finally got to his feet and went to find him, Castiel wasn’t there.

 

* * *

 

It was the end of January now, and the reservoir was windswept, cold and barren. There wasn’t another soul to be seen; even the birds weren’t flying that day, no doubt tucked into whatever places they could find that were dry and out of the gale. There were sudden squalls of rain, too, and overall it was the kind of day best spent indoors. 

And so the fact that there was someone sitting on a bench overlooking the water was bizarre, except that Dean knew exactly why Castiel was there.

He walked over to him, boots squelching in grassy mud. Castiel showed no sign of noticing him as he sat down beside him on the damp wood, grimacing at the wind. The reservoir was being whipped into a frenzy, little waves white-topped and bouncing. It was beautiful, in a depressing sort of way. Dean had a sudden flashback to sitting here a few months beforehand with Castiel weeping in his arms. 

So much misery. Why were their lives like this?

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Castiel didn’t respond. His face was pale in the biting wind, contrasting fiercely with his black coat. After all this time, it still surprised Dean to see Castiel in colors that weren’t _tan trenchcoat_ and _blue tie._

“I didn’t mean any of it,” Dean continued, turning to face him on the bench. “I haven’t been sleeping, I’ve been stressed... but I shouldn’t have lost my temper. The things I said, they were wrong. You’re always there when I need you, Cas. I nearly died. I would’ve died, if you hadn’t saved me. Probably a million times over by now, seriously. I’m not thinking straight and I’m sorry. I’m an asshole.”

“I have tried to be supportive,” Castiel said dully, staring out at the water. 

“You always are,” Dean said quickly. “And I’m grateful. I’m really fucking grateful, even I forget it sometimes. I feel terrible, man, I shouldn’t have behaved like that.”

Castiel sighed. “You were right, though. I am useless. All my powers and I can’t find Sam.” He looked down at his hands. “I sometimes wonder why I didn’t die, back when... when I was with them. I assumed that maybe I had a purpose to fulfill. But perhaps it was just luck.”

Dean frowned. “Of course you have a purpose, Cas.”

Castiel finally looked at him, his eyes wide and pleading. “Then tell me what it is.”

Taken aback, Dean was lost for words for a few moments, then remembered Castiel asking him the same question once before as they’d sat on this bench. He’d told him it was to relax, enjoy some sunsets, pet a few dogs. This time, though, the question felt more personal. 

“The same purpose as the rest of us,” he said at last, after thinking furiously. “To live your life. To love and be loved. To be happy.”

Castiel looked back at the reservoir. “I do not seem to be doing well on that last point.” 

“Yeah, well. It’s a work in progress for all of us, Cas. There are times where I think I’ve been miserable for so much of my life that...” He stopped, reining himself in. That was going to a dark place. “But you know what? I’ve been happy too. We were happy before the Sluagh, weren’t we? I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way before. It was amazing.”

Castiel’s head dropped down. He rubbed at his wrists in that oh-so-familiar way, and Dean felt his spirits sink even further at the sight. 

“I thought I was happy then,” Castiel said. _Rub. Rub. Rub._ The rhythm of his fingers on the spots where his manacles had been was almost hypnotic. “I have spent a long time thinking about it. Trying to understand if it was true or not. If what I felt was... If it was real.”

“It was real for _me_ ,” Dean said, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice.

“I know. Of course I know that, Dean.”

He fell silent. 

Dean swallowed, suddenly getting it. “You... you’ve decided, haven’t you? You were right. It was all fake. It was the Sluagh, not you. You never wanted me, not like that.”

Castiel finally lifted his head and looked him right in the eyes. “I’m sorry, Dean. I am an angel. We aren’t meant to reproduce, and therefore sex is not in our nature – it’s something else, something animalistic, something human. It’s not celestial. But when I am inside this body it can be confusing. What happened with the demons and, most of all, the Sluagh... it tricked me. It changed me, but now I’ve changed back again.” He stopped, studying Dean’s face, before continuing gently: “Now I’ve realized this, I don’t think I can recreate the... desires I had. It doesn’t feel right. It would be a lie, and you deserve better, Dean. I love you more than anything I’ve ever known, more than–” He hesitated. “More than _God._ I... I can’t believe I just said that. But I’m afraid I don’t love you in that way. I’m so sorry.”

Dean looked down, unable to face him anymore. 

So that was it.

It was over. 

It had been so brief, so fleeting, but Dean had always known it would end badly, because of course it would. Everything ended badly for him. He’d lost his brother and now he was losing the man he loved – or at least, one side of him. 

Could he be content spending time with Castiel and not having sex with him? How would that feel? Never to kiss him again, never feeling his skin against his, breathing in his breath, feeling him shudder as he came inside him... knowing how it was to lie in his arms, held tight, feeling safe... that _intimacy..._

Dean stood, walking down to the edge of the reservoir. He swallowed hard, choking back tears, fortifying himself. He wasn’t going to be weak. He couldn’t be weak. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now except for Sam.

He glared out at the water for long enough to get soaked to the skin. Then he turned back to Castiel, who was staring up at him from the bench with mournful eyes.

“It’s fine,” he said, and was surprised that his voice sounded almost normal. “I’m glad you were honest about it, Cas. And I’m sorry this all happened to you. You should never have to feel this way about me, about sex, about anything. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. I think we’ve kinda established that by now.”

Castiel nodded slowly, though his expression didn’t change. “I am so sorry, Dean. I will cherish that you trusted me enough to become so close to me. I...” He stopped, shaking his head, seemingly at a loss for what to say. “I’m so sorry,” he said again.

Dean studied him, wondering at the fact that he’d been apologizing to Castiel just a few moments ago and now everything had flipped and Castiel was looking at him like this, all pained face and begging blue eyes. He sighed, feeling a cold, hard lump of sadness settle in his belly. Then, without thinking, he took three steps over to the bench, leaned down and kissed him. 

Castiel’s lips were cold and he didn’t respond; his body tensed up and he huffed a breath of shock into Dean’s mouth. 

As far as romantic goodbyes went, it was a shitty one, and when Dean straightened he felt himself shaking from disappointment and grief. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said again, sounding distraught. “I wasn’t expecting... I didn’t realize...”

Dean nodded. “I understand,” he told him, his voice cracking. “Come on, Cas, let’s go home.”

He held out a hand to lift Castiel up from the bench, but forgot he’d hurt it from that stupid punch earlier that day. He winced when Castiel gripped it, biting his lip to keep from crying out.

“I can heal that,” Castiel said earnestly before Dean could pull it away.

“No,” said Dean. “It’s what I get for yelling at you for no reason.”

Castiel released his hand, staring at it uncertainly, before looking up again. “You must also apologize to Betsy,” he said.

Dean sighed, realizing that Castiel seemed to have some kind of bond with that damn cat. “I can pick up some bacon from the store on the way back,” he offered.

“I think she would appreciate that.”

Their eyes met and a long, silent, meaningful moment passed between them.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel murmured, as though he hadn’t already said it enough. “I wish I could be what you need me to be.”

“Me too, Cas,” Dean said, turning away. “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

Dean lay in the dark and stared up at the ceiling through the gloom. He couldn’t sleep. Why couldn’t he sleep? Over the past week he’d only caught a few hours here and there before his dreams had become so twisted and angst-ridden that he’d woken himself up. He was a wreck. At this rate he’d go insane, and then he’d be no use to Sam at all.

_Castiel could help you,_ he thought. _Two fingers to the forehead and you’ll be asleep, just like that._

But he didn’t want Castiel to touch him. It felt too personal. 

He thought back to the things they’d done in this bed; how Castiel had moaned beneath him, how he had seemed so full of joy, desperate to fuck him and desperate to be fucked, with nothing of those cold, terrifying years spent with the demons polluting their time together. And that was the joke, wasn’t it? The whole time he and Castiel had been having sex, the whole time they’d been all over each other, fucking and sweating and sharing everything, that hadn’t even been _real_ for one of them. It had been nothing more than a manipulation from some creature that Dean hadn’t even known existed. 

Everything was so wrong right now. Sam was gone. Dean thought of his brother’s face, how he smiled, how he understood Dean on a level nobody else – not even Castiel – could or would ever understand him. He thought of that time he and Castiel had made love in a meadow during a sunset. He thought of the box in his head that was safely containing forty years of torture and pain, and he thought of Sam’s face as he’d left him in that chair to die.

_Where are you, Sammy?_

And then Dean couldn’t hold it back any more, and so he cried. He curled up in the bed and sobbed, too exhausted to be strong for a moment longer. 

 

* * *

 

He felt like death the next morning, and when he found Castiel in the kitchen there was a heavy, uncomfortable silence between them. Dean wondered if Castiel had heard him crying – with his angelic hearing, he must have. He certainly seemed to be regarding him with an edge of pity: although he was trying to keep it hidden, Dean knew Castiel well enough now to see it. A stab of anger flared inside him – _how dare he pity him_ – but then it was gone. Dean was done with being angry at things that were out of his control. 

“Hey,” he said finally, sitting down at the table. 

Castiel tilted his head. “How are you feeling?” 

Dammit. He’d definitely heard. 

“Like I really want Sam to be here,” he said simply, not meeting Castiel’s gaze.

More silence.

“Dean, I–”

He nearly jumped out of his skin when his phone suddenly rang. It was Jody. 

“Hey, any news?” Dean asked, putting the call on speaker.

“Actually, yes. Where are you? Still at the bunker?”

Dean sat straighter, shooting Castiel a worried look. “Yeah. Why?”

“You need to get to El Dorado Lake. Got a pal who works in the city PD who can meet you. Dean, your brother was there yesterday.”

_Sam’s alive. Thank God._ For a moment Dean couldn’t breathe, a wave of relief flowing through him that felt as though it was making his hair stand on end.

“How do you know it was him?” Castiel asked, his voice wary.

There was a pause. “It ain’t good,” Jody said. Dean could tell she was being careful with her words. “There was a murder. Hell, it was a mass-murder. Thirteen people in a barn. Sam was caught on camera leaving the scene covered in blood.”

“It wasn’t Sammy,” Dean snapped without thinking.

“Of course it wasn’t, for cryin’ out loud, Dean, that’s not what I’m thinking! It’s whatever’s riding him. Assuming this is even his own body, of course. Either way, it killed a bunch of folks and it’s bad. So far they’ve kept it out of the news, but that won’t last. My friend owed me one, hence the tip-off – she said the killings looked Satanic or something, so she let me view the footage.” She paused. “It’s definitely Sam,” she continued after a few beats, her voice sounding a little too controlled. Dean wondered what the hell she’d seen in that footage. “If you can get there by this afternoon you can see the crime scene before the forensics team get their paws on it. I’d join you, but there’s a plain-old non-supernatural murder case I’m working here, and I can’t let down the relatives. I promised I’d find the guy who killed their daughter. Sorry.”

“Sounds like there’s more than enough murder to go round today,” Dean said, jumping to his feet and picking up the phone. “Tell your friend we’re on our way.”

“Wait,” said Castiel. “Jody, how did they die?”

Dean froze, wondering why he hadn’t asked that himself yet; after all, the way the victims had died could help to identify what had taken Sam. He supposed he just... didn’t want to think about it. It was inconceivable that his brother was killing people, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the details. 

Jody paused for so long that Dean thought she’d already hung up. “Badly,” she said. 

“How?” Dean queried, lowering his voice. He didn’t want to know, but he had to hear it.

“They were hung upside-down, drained of blood and skinned. Dean... there were kids, too.”

Nobody said anything. 

“Look, you get down there and you bring Sam home,” Jody said, sounding determined and kind, her tone exactly what Dean needed hear right now. “He already knows you’re going to save him. You just need to get out there and do it.”

She ended the call.

“Let’s go,” said Dean.

 

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

There was blood everywhere.

Dean was used to blood and gore – of course he was. He was a hunter, and even without that under his belt he’d also spent forty years in Hell. But this was shocking nevertheless, mainly because it was so... _twisted_. Someone had methodically collected blood in buckets and used it to paint the walls, ceiling and floor of the small barn, effectively creating an enormous, glistening red box. Only around half the area had dried out and so it gleamed wetly, some of the blood lying in glutinous, peeling lumps. It also stank, making Dean regret having eaten anything in the last... well, forever. 

The smell reminded him of Alastair. It was strange; he could almost feel the box in his head pulsing as Hell-memories strained to be free. How had he never noticed that happening before?

There was a beam stretching across the room with ropes hanging down from it. The bodies had been removed but it was plain to see how they’d been strung up; and as if that wasn’t enough, Jody’s police detective friend, Imogen, showed them the photos on her phone.

Dean had only been able to look at the images once. Again, the memory box shuddered in his mind. Castiel, however, stared for a long time, his jaw tense and his eyes cold. 

A neighbor down the street had reported hearing screams the night before. There had been a two-hour delay in answering the call, Imogen said, due to understaffing in the department. She looked sick to the stomach at the thought that her team could’ve saved the victims otherwise, and after seeing what was left of the three children in the photos, Dean wondered if she or anyone else in the department would ever sleep again from the guilt at their tardiness. 

Of course, the fact that they’d been understaffed meant that whatever had done this hadn’t killed them all the moment they’d arrived. So it was a blessing in one way, at least.

“Can you show us the security footage?” he asked, trying to control his breathing. He had known that this was going to be difficult, but he hadn’t realized just how horrifying it was to see bodies and know that Sammy’s hands had actually snuffed out their lives. Whether Sam was still inside that body or whether he was actually dead and this was just something impersonating him, it still felt incredibly personal. Dean wanted to scream _this was not my brother_ at the top of his lungs, but he had to pretend to be a professional. Jody hadn’t told Imogen much about them; only that they were ‘specialists’ in ‘cult murders’. Nobody here knew they were dealing with anything supernatural, and Dean wanted to keep it that way.

Imogen pulled a laptop out of her bag. Her hands were shaking. “Sorry,” she said, when she saw that Dean had noticed. “We don’t get a lot of stuff like this round here. Usually it’s drugs-related or domestic violence. This is a whole new kettle of fish.”

She opened the laptop. Castiel caught Dean’s eye, frowning quizzically. “Fish?” he mouthed. 

Dean shook his head and stared at the computer screen.

“Here you go,” said Imogen. “This was filmed at eleven-thirty last night, an hour after the neighbor called it in. That’s our murderer. No footage of him entering the building, but we do have this at least.”

The footage wasn’t high-definition and was lit only by two nearby streetlights, but the man who walked out of the barn and down the road with his back to the camera was one hundred-per-cent _Sam_. He was still wearing the clothes Dean had last seen him in, albeit darkly bloodstained and disheveled now. Dean felt a thrill run through him at the sight: there he was, alive and kicking, and all they had to do now was figure out where he’d gone after this was filmed. 

And get to him before the police did, of course. Although, the more Dean looked, it was apparent that there wasn’t a single clear shot of Sam’s face: just his body and the back of his head. Unmistakably him, but only if you _knew._ He felt a rush of relief at the thought. It was one less problem to cope with.

“Any ideas who he is?” Imogen asked, watching his face carefully. Dean rearranged his expression to look as neutral as possible, but something told him that she’d noticed his intensity and was curious. Dammit. So much for ‘professional’. 

“We think his name is Crowley,” said Castiel unexpectedly. 

Dean shot him a shocked look. 

“Is that spelled ‘l, e, y’?” Imogen balanced her laptop on her knee and typed it onto the screen. 

“Yes. He’s the head of a gang of, er, cutthroats and hooligans. We’ve been tracking them for a while.”

Dean had no idea what Castiel was doing, but he couldn’t help but wince at his choice of words. Again, he glared at him, but Castiel was staring at Imogen intently, oblivious to his awkward phrasing. 

“Cutthroats and hooligans,” Imogen muttered, frowning. “Is that their gang name?”

“Er. Yes.”

“That sounds more _Peaky Blinders_ than Satanic to me. Also... these victims were a church group. Not really gang material.”

“What kind of church group?” Dean asked.

Imogen shrugged. “Some tiny Christian sect I’ve never heard of. They’d meet in this barn once a week. Harmless, apparently – they did good deeds around the community. Most of them volunteered in a soup kitchen.”

Dean shot Castiel a pointed look. Whatever was inside Sam was targeting religion – this wasn’t a random killing.

“Look, if you can share anything else you have on this guy, I’d appreciate it,” Imogen said.

“Of course,” said Dean, smiling uncomfortably. “Can we just poke about the scene for a few more minutes? We won’t contaminate it.” Imogen looked a little unsettled at the thought. “Jody said you wouldn’t mind,” Dean added, realizing they could be overstepping their welcome here.

At that, Imogen tilted her head, then nodded. “Okey-dokey. Well, I do owe the Sheriff. She’s one in a million, that lady.”

“A billion,” Dean said, and he meant it. Imogen noted his sincerity and smiled a hundred-watt smile at him. She was attractive enough that it threw him for a moment, and as she walked away he suddenly realized that he hadn’t flirted with her once. 

In fact, he never flirted with any woman these days. How strange that he hadn’t noticed until right now. The things Castiel had done to him... although, given recent developments, perhaps that wouldn’t be an issue soon. 

He glanced over at the man in question, raising his eyebrows. “Crowley? What the hell, Cas, are you trying to get her whole department killed?”

“It was a gamble, I will admit,” Castiel said, not sounding remotely apologetic. “But it occurred to me that if Crowley is ignoring our calls, perhaps he wouldn’t ignore us blaming this carnage on him. And once we’ve done that, he’s going to want to know who actually did it.”

“And what if he goes after Sam himself?”

“Then he will realize it’s not really Sam and... contact us,” Castiel suddenly sounded less certain. “Or at least, we can hope he will. Do you... do you think he will?”

Dean thought about it. “If he thinks we’d owe him a favor afterwards, then yes, I think he will. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.” He gazed around the room. “Have you ever seen anything like this before? This is seriously fucked up, Cas.”

Castiel shook his head. “I can’t imagine why any creature would wish to do this. I can’t see or feel any spells or warding, and I don’t see any objects that could signify any magic was performed here. It’s... curious.”

“So, what, he just did this because he fancied doing some home decorating?” Dean stared at the walls. A shudder ran down his spine. 

Sam did this. _Sammy._

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

 

* * *

 

But there was a nasty surprise waiting for them when they reached the Impala. Castiel saw it first. He was ahead of Dean and suddenly stopped dead, so abruptly that Dean almost walked into his back. He side-stepped him, puzzled, and looked to see what had caught his attention.

There was something sitting on the hood of the car. Dean blinked at it in bafflement before realizing what it was: the melted, twisted lump that had once been the collar Castiel had worn around his neck for those long years with the demons. 

A yellow Post-It Note was attached to the metal. 

_Miss me?_ it asked, in Sam’s handwriting.

“Fuck,” Dean hissed, staggered. And then every sense was on high alert: he spun to stare around him, looking for Sam amidst the crowd that was starting to gather at the sight of the police cruisers. 

His brother had been here. He’d seen them. He’d murdered those poor people and then stayed there, somewhere hidden, waiting for them to arrive. He’d watched them go into the barn. He’d been prepared. He’d swiped the collar from the bunker and brought it with him just to do this. 

He was _taunting_ them.

But Dean couldn’t see him. He searched and searched, oblivious to everything else, straining his eyes until they hurt, but Sam wasn’t there. Finally, trying to get his breathing back under control, Dean turned to Castiel, who was still staring at the collar, frozen in place. 

“You okay?” Dean asked.

Castiel tensed, then looked at him. “It knew,” he said. 

“Knew?”

“It knew what this would mean to me, Dean. Which means that whatever this is, it knows my story. It knows your story – our story. It has Sam’s memories. It knows everything Sam knows.”

Dean swallowed, staring around him one last time. “Maybe it is a demon after all. Or some other kind of... psychic thing. Sam wouldn’t be working with it, so it has to be a mind-reader.”

Castiel stared at the collar.

“Hey,” Dean said, lowering his voice as two cops walked past, staring quizzically at the melted metal lump on the hood of the car. “You didn’t answer me. Are you okay?”

Castiel nodded slowly. “I didn’t realize you’d kept it,” he said.

“Yeah, well, we didn’t want it falling into someone else’s hands in case it came back to life or something. Although I don’t think it will, it’s dead as a doornail.”

Castiel was silent. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean offered, as he didn’t know quite what else to say.

“It’s so small,” Castiel said quietly. “I didn’t realize – it seemed so huge when it was on me. But it’s only tiny.”

Dean walked across to the collar and picked it up. He stared at it and the note for a few moments, then grimaced and looked around. He spotted a trash can a short distance away and went over to it, dumping the collar in it and rubbing his hands on his jeans as he walked back to Castiel. The whole time he looked around them, but couldn’t see Sam anywhere.

“We need to find out if there’s any security footage of this road,” he told Castiel, whose face was noticeably paler than usual. “If we can figure out what car he’s driving, that’ll be something.”

“Of course,” said Castiel, sounding a little shaken.

Dean couldn’t help it; he put a comforting hand on Castiel’s shoulder, wincing inwardly as he felt him flinch. “I’m sorry he did this.”

Castiel blinked. “Me too,” he said, and climbed into the car without another word. 

 

* * *

 

With Imogen’s help gaining access to the feeds, they spent the next few hours scouring every camera in the vicinity for signs of Sam, but to no avail. Dean actually found himself wondering if he’d turned invisible; nobody should have been able to get inside the police cordon and leave the collar without being seen. He’d just begun to research creatures that could turn see-through before Castiel came up with another, more logical solution. 

“Someone else left the collar.”

“Huh?”

“Look.” Castiel pointed at the screen. A police officer walked in the direction of the car, vanished at the edge of the camera’s gaze, and then returned a few moments later. In the first shot he’d been carrying a small parcel. In the second, it was no longer in his hand. He was blank-faced the whole time, and totally ignored another cop who spoke to him as he made his way back to the crime scene.

“We need to find that guy,” Dean observed, stating the obvious.

“If whatever has Sam is able to control other people, we need to be more careful,” Castiel said. “A threat could come from anyone.”

“I get the feeling that this son of a bitch could come get us any time it wants to. The fact it hasn’t probably shows it’s not ready. _Yet,_ anyway.”

Castiel forced a grim smile. “I suppose that’s something we can look forward to.”

Dean took a screengrab of the police officer on screen – feeling a chill as he recalled the last time he’d screengrabbed on this computer, back when he’d been watching those videos of Castiel with the demons. 

That seemed such a long time ago now. 

He sent the image over to Imogen at the police station, who replied that the officer’s name was Lincoln Cobb and he’d called in sick that afternoon, claiming to be distressed by the murders. When she asked why Dean needed to know, he made up a story about how Cobb could have seen the killer’s car and asked for his address. Imogen texted it to him without any further questions, and told him to pass on a message. 

_Tell Lincoln he can take all the time he needs,_ she wrote. _He’s a great guy. Nobody’s judging him for bowing out. This is one hell of a situation, and we understand. My team are pretty awesome._

“She’s a good boss,” Dean observed, as they drove. “Imagine having a mass-murderer on your doorstep and you’re cool about your colleague calling in sick. Most bosses would be spitting blood, especially when they’re already understaffed.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Man, I hope this guy isn’t possessed or anything. Or dead. This thing’s killed enough people already.”

Castiel said nothing, staring intently at the road ahead.

Dean glanced at him, realizing that there was a lot going on in his head right now. He fell silent, mentally urging the cars in front of him to speed up. 

This police officer might be able to tell them where Sam was. Hell, Sam could actually be waiting for them at the guy’s house. The sooner they got there, the sooner...

...the sooner what? How could they overpower whatever was riding around in Sam’s body if they didn’t even know what it was? They were woefully underprepared for this. It didn’t seem to be a demon – Dean couldn’t shake the groggy memory of Sam standing over him in the middle of that Devil’s Trap – but what the hell would take someone’s body as well as all their memories, then commit a sickening massacre like that? Was this thing actually a shapeshifter? How was it powerful enough to evade location spells? Was it something worse – a Leviathan? Some kind of demigod?

He knew one thing for sure, though. 

“If he’s there, we can’t kill him,” he announced.

Castiel turned to stare at him. “Dean, we may have no choice.”

“I want you to promise me, Cas.” Dean glared at the road ahead, his voice deepening. “We need to contain him somehow, buy us some time. We need to know what’s going on. Sam could still be inside that body. Or he could be being held prisoner somewhere else. We don’t know shit and we can’t over-react. You need to promise me that you won’t kill him.”

Castiel hesitated. 

“Cas,” Dean said again, his tone pleading.

“I promise,” Castiel said. “But if he tries to kill you, I will react accordingly.”

Dean sighed. “If it comes down to me or Sam, you know who I’d choose, Cas.”

“Yes,” said Castiel. “I know. But Sam wouldn’t want you to die either.”

He turned back to the road and stared straight ahead again, his expression fierce. Dean couldn’t think of what else to say, so he just drove. 

 

* * *

 

The door to Cobb’s house was open when they arrived.

The building was set back from the street behind a row of dense bushes, and everything about it made Dean nervous. Gun in hand, he walked up the steps to the door as quietly as he could, trailed by Castiel. Neither of them knew if Sam was inside, but they were prepared for the worst; the angel blade in Castiel’s hand glinted in the rosy glow of the sunset.

The hallway was deserted as they stepped inside, but there was an unmistakable noise coming from what looked to be the kitchen. It was the sound of a child sobbing, slightly muffled, a chilling thing to hear in the stillness of the house.

Dean shot Castiel a determined look and crept down the hall, although he had a nagging feeling that their stealth was unnecessary. They were probably expected. 

And he was right. 

“I thought you’d never get here,” said Sam.

Dean stepped into the kitchen. His brother was standing by the counter holding a mug, dressed in jeans and a blue t-shirt, smiling so normally that for a moment Dean thought he was _him_ again. Then, behind him, he saw Cobb with a woman – probably his wife – and a girl aged around seven, all of them tied to chairs around the kitchen table. They were gagged, staring at him through wide, tearful eyes. 

So Sam had threatened Cobb’s family to make him deliver that parcel. No possession. This was good news, in a weird way: it meant that he only had to deal with the thing inside Sam. Although unfortunately he also had to make sure these guys didn’t end up dead in a few minutes. Sam clearly knew that Dean would put them first – they were hostages.

“Did you like my gift?” Sam asked, nodding at Castiel.

“Yes,” said Castiel bitterly, coming to stand at Dean’s side. “It was very thoughtful. Who are you?”

Sam shrugged. “Eh, just someone. I’m sure you’ll find out eventually. I’m quite enjoying the anonymity, to be honest. In the meantime I’m having a lot of fun learning how to be a man. It’s amazing what’s in Sam Winchester’s mind, you know. I’ve been scraping away at layers and layers of knowledge, learning all about the world today through his life. He’s helped me a lot. I’ve been absorbing him, like a sponge. I even talk like him now. I said ‘dude’ yesterday and it really took me by surprise.” 

He laughed, waving his mug in the air. It was filled with coffee. The incongruity of this, and the normality of his demeanor, was bizarre given the blood-soaked barn they’d seen that morning.

“Get out of him,” Dean growled, pointing his gun directly at his brother’s face.

“Or what? You’ll shoot me in my pretty kisser? I don’t think so, Dean. I know you better than that.”

“What do you want?” asked Castiel, cutting right to the chase.

Sam took a sip of coffee, swallowed and grinned. “Let’s see. Well, first I’m enjoying my freedom. I was out of commission for two hundred years, y’know, and it’s just pleasant to see blue skies and feel the wind in my hair. It’s nice, don’t you think?” He ran a hand through Sam’s hair, mussing it a little on top. “And I’ve been dying to cause some carnage, flex my artistic muscles. Did you like my painting? I find it very calming. Sam likes watching Bob Ross on YouTube, so I just took that a step further. I probably should’ve painted more trees though. Bob likes painting trees.” He put down the mug, folding his arms. “Isn’t YouTube amazing? The whole internet thing is just, like, so cool. Back in my day you were lucky if you could read a book, let alone watch Netflix for an entire weekend.”

“What the hell _are_ you?” Dean asked, feeling overwhelmed; this thing could really talk. “You killed thirteen people and painted walls with their blood just because you like Bob fucking _Ross_?”

“Yeah.” Sam smiled, his expression so achingly familiar that Dean had to take a sharp breath. “You see, I’m all about the Id. I do whatever the fuck I want and I do it as hard as I want. And I’m going to carry on doing it. For example, I like killing people and I like playing around with their blood and their entrails. There’s nothing quite like it.”

The little girl made a tiny whimpering noise at this, and Sam looked back at her and nodded. “Yeah sister, I hear ya.”

Dean swallowed, thinking hard. “Let them go and you can have me.”

Sam laughed, the sound coming out as a bark. “Really? That’s the best you’ve got? You’re not in a position of power here, brother dearest.” For the first time he frowned, and suddenly Dean saw something behind his eyes that wasn’t Sam. It was cold and dark, something alien, and it chilled him to the bone.

“Your little Sammy wouldn’t want me to kill you, Dean,” said the thing in Sam’s body. “And so obviously that means I’m going to do just that. But first I’m going to play with you, because that’s the fun part. Oh, I’m going to lead you a merry dance.” He stepped forward, ominously. “Sam loves you, Dean, but I despise you. I despise both of you.” 

He glared at Castiel, who raised the angel blade slightly in response. “You want to know why I loathe you? Why I want to see you both ripped inside-out, screaming in pain, weeping and begging for my mercy?”

“You’re pissed because nobody likes you?” Dean quipped, feeling his palm sweating around the gun’s handle.

Sam chuckled. “Oh, Dean... Dean, Dean, Dean. You and your angel. Don’t you see how disgusting you are? Don’t you know how vile it is that the two of you are fucking? You make me sick. There isn’t much that makes me sick, but you’re right up there. I’d rather pluck out my own eyes – or Sam’s eyes, anyway – than watch you two lovebirds manhandling each other. A human and a celestial doing... _that_. Ugh. What would God say?”

Dean shot a glance at the family watching him with horror-filled eyes, allowing himself a moment to wonder what the hell they were thinking right now, and then he met Sam’s eyes again. “God doesn’t give a crap what we do,” he snapped. “And angels have free will now, in case you missed the memo. We’re both free to make our own choices.”

“But that’s my _point_ ,” Sam said, sounding pained. “You choose to do... that. To fornicate. You’re both _men_. It’s disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

What the hell? Dean almost lowered his gun in surprise. “Seriously?” he snapped, feeling as though he was in some kind of crazy dream. “You skin all those innocent people alive and yet the thought of _gay sex_ turns your stomach? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You make the beast with two backs with another man,” Sam rumbled, angry now; his words suddenly sounded less like Sam and more like someone older. “That is against all the laws of nature and a crime punishable by eternal damnation. You will burn in Hell for your wanton lust.”

“A person’s sexuality is completely irrelevant to whether they get into Heaven or not,” Castiel pointed out, with extraordinary reasonableness given the situation. “Committing murder, however, is a one-way ticket to Hell. I suspect you already know this, don’t you? You were in Hell until very recently, after all.”

This seemed to throw Sam a little bit. He paused, eyeing Castiel warily, before nodding. “Aye, I was indeed.”

“You’re a demon,” Castiel observed. 

Sam shrugged. “I was. Once. Now I’m something else.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” Dean snapped.

“Something better.”

“All I can see is a homophobic, murdering piece of shit inside my brother,” Dean growled. He aimed his gun at Sam’s chest, feeling his heart thudding in his own. “Now get the fuck out of him before I have to end you.”

“Tsk. Your bullet won’t even reach me, Dean.”

“I don’t see a forcefield, asshole, so I think it will.”

Sam tilted his head and smiled. “Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

Something hit Dean with what felt like the force of a truck. It grabbed him and threw him backwards down the hallway until he hit the front door frame with a crash that ejected every ounce of air from his lungs. He slumped to the floor, gasping, his eyes watering and his ears ringing, and then he was lifted into the air and thrown into the next room, landing painfully on a glass coffee table that shattered under his weight. 

He lay stunned, unable to move, desperately heaving oxygen into his lungs. He could sense something was in the room with him – a presence, a figure, only he couldn’t see it. He’d somehow managed to hold onto his gun and he aimed it at thin air, daring it to show itself, but a cold, invisible hand wrapped itself around his wrist and tugged. Something inside it _snapped_ and Dean screamed, finding air at last.

“Dean!” Castiel yelled from the kitchen, and Dean couldn’t tell if it was in response to his cry of pain or a call for help. Desperate, he lunged upwards with his good hand, trying to punch whatever this invisible creature was in the throat, but there was nothing there. 

Hands suddenly grabbed his neck and squeezed. 

“ _Sam..._ ” he choked, tears filling his eyes as he struggled to breathe.

The invisible hands pressed harder.

This was it. Dean was going to die and he couldn’t even see what was killing him. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to–

There was gunfire, a series of flashes that lit up the room in the dim glow of sunset. The hands around Dean’s neck were suddenly gone and he fell to the floor, wheezing, cradling his wrist. 

He wasn’t really aware of anything for a few minutes, and then he felt hands on his shoulders and heard a voice saying, “Dean? Dean? Come on, talk to me, sweetheart. _Dean._ Are you alright?”

Dean squinted up at his rescuer. “Jody?” he croaked.

The Sheriff placed a hand on his cheek, smiling faintly. “There you are. Come on, let’s sit you upright.”

“Sam!” Dean gasped. “He’s in the kitchen!”

“He’s gone, Dean.” Dean looked up as Castiel walked into the room, his expression grim. There was blood on his cheek and his face was pale, but he nodded at Jody and seemed calm enough.

Dean struggled into a sitting position, holding a hand to his sore neck. “The family?”

Castiel nodded. “Safe. I untied Lincoln and he’s looking after his wife and child.”

“Then how... what...” Dean looked at Jody, still a little stunned. “Why are you here?”

She sighed. “The murderer in the case I was working on handed himself in this morning. Came right out of the blue. Fit of guilt, apparently. So I was free to hightail it down here to see you guys. Imogen told me where you were – thought I’d surprise you. Seems I have impeccable timing – I was just getting out of the car when I saw you hit the door over there.”

Dean let out a breath. “Yeah, you really do. Thanks, Jody. But... we need to go after Sam.”

Castiel shook his head. “We can’t – not yet. He’s protected by Daevas. I counted three of them, though he could have more. They are formidable foes – we should be dead, Dean, but I suspect he gave them orders not to kill us today. They attacked me but backed off just before I heard the gunshots. Sam left through the back door just as Jody arrived.” He sighed. “Apparently he wishes to... play with us.”

Dean thought back to the last – and only – time he’d tangled with Daevas, many years ago when he’d been searching for his father with Sam. Meg had been using them as her attack dogs, setting them on people and ripping them to shreds. They were immensely powerful demons, defeated only by bright light. 

“Daevas... yeah, that makes sense. In that case... Jody’s bullets wouldn’t have stopped one. It must’ve simply been trying to scare me.”

Jody chuckled. “And there was me, thinkin’ I’d just saved your life.”

Dean placed a hand on her arm. “Hey, it still mattered. And it certainly didn’t feel like it was about to let me go.” He looked down at his other wrist, grimacing. “It broke a few bones, I think. Cas?”

Castiel raised his eyebrows and stepped forward. “You are extraordinarily accident-prone of late, Dean.” He placed a hand on Dean’s wrist and a few moments later it felt normal again. But, for a second or two, he felt something else wash over him: a warmth, an intimacy that he’d been missing. _Castiel._ And then, as the angel stepped back, it was gone. He felt strangely heartbroken.

“Hey, are you okay?” asked Jody, rising from her crouch and nodding at Castiel. Recovering himself, Dean followed her gaze; she was looking at Castiel’s back, which he couldn’t see from this angle. He rose too, and for the first time he noticed where the blood on Castiel’s cheek had come from. There were holes ripped viciously across the back of his coat, from shoulder to shoulder and up and down, with ugly, bleeding slashes in Castiel’s skin beneath them. It looked as though a hellhound had tried to rip him apart.

“It’s nothing,” Castiel said. 

“Are you serious?” Jody said, her eyes widening. “That’s... not nothing.”

Castiel frowned. “You’re right. It’s annoying. I liked this coat.”

Dean stared at him for a few moments, processing, and then rubbed his forehead. “Okay,” he said. “We need to figure out what to do next.”

“It was definitely him, then?” Jody asked. “Did you speak to him?”

Dean told her what had happened. It was a relief, in a way: he was thrilled that Sam was still alive somewhere inside his body, but none the wiser about how to get him back. “He said that he _used_ to be a demon,” he observed, shrugging. “What the hell does that mean? Cas, any clue?”

Castiel shook his head. “No, but I believe we must make contacting Crowley our priority now. He must know something. Perhaps that’s the very reason he hasn’t returned our calls.”

“You think he’s behind this?” Jody asked, folding her arms.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Dean grunted. “But we need to find Sam again.”

Jody nodded. “So we have to figure out a way to see off those... what did you say they were? Daevas?”

“Flare guns,” Dean explained. “Daevas are made of shadows. Get rid of the shadows and they’re powerless.”

“Okay. Well, we pick up some flare guns, pick up the trail, and we go and pick up Sam.”

Jody was so matter-of-fact that Dean almost believed it would be that easy. He knew it wouldn’t be. Regardless, he was grateful for her optimism, and so he smiled at her, suddenly feeling exhausted. A moment later her expression changed to one of concern. 

“And when was the last time you slept, sunshine?” 

“I’m fine,” he said.

“He hasn’t slept for about a week,” Castiel said, narrowing his eyes at Dean. 

“Tattle-tale.”

“Okay, so, I’m going to rent some motel rooms and you’re going to bed.” Dean opened his mouth to protest but Jody raised a finger to shush him so forcefully that Dean’s jaw snapped shut. “ _Don’t_ argue. Cas and I will do what needs to be done while you get some sleep. Hopefully by the time you wake up, we’ll have a plan.”

“Jody–”

“Hello?”

They all turned. Lincoln Cobb was standing in the doorway to the lounge, rubbing rope burns on his wrists, a shell-shocked look on his face. 

“You guys okay?” Dean asked, thinking about the expression on the little girl’s face when Sam had talked about playing with people’s entrails.

Cobb nodded slowly. “Yeah... I think. I don’t know. Does... who... who was that? What was it?”

“It’s a long story,” Jody said, patting him on the arm comfortingly. “You’re safe now, though. That’s all that matters.”

“It made me put something on a car,” said Cobb, blinking rapidly. “It said it would kill Susan and Chloe if I didn’t. I thought... what was it? Was it a bomb? It didn’t look like a bomb. What did I do?”

“It was nothing,” said Castiel in a gentle voice. He shot a meaningful look back at Dean, then turned to face Cobb. “And it’s in the past. Everything is fine now. Would you like me to talk to your family? I can help them, if you want. I can make them forget this ever happened. I am an angel. It’s something I can do. I can take away the pain.”

Lincoln Cobb stared at him, his eyes wet and red. 

“Yes,” he said, after a long pause. “Make my little girl forget. Make us forget. All of us.”

Dean watched as Castiel disappeared into the kitchen with him.

“Come with me,” Jody said, taking Dean’s hand. “Let’s get you a nice, soft bed so you can forget everything for a while, too.”

Dean didn’t argue. 

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will probably be two weeks or so before I update again - my apologies!  
> But hey, at least it wasn't an epic cliffhanger this time...


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

He didn’t sleep. He lay in the bed in his motel room and stared at the ceiling instead. A new ceiling to stare at made a change, he supposed.

Every hour or so he’d start to doze, but then he’d wake up suddenly, seeing Sam in his mind’s eye waving that innocuous coffee mug around while talking about how much he loved to kill. He’d hear him saying _It’s disgusting, you should be ashamed of yourselves_ and he’d feel a cold lump in his stomach. It wasn’t Sam saying those words – of course it wasn’t. But just hearing them in his brother’s voice freaked him out. That hatred. That judgment.

Of course, the joke was on whatever it was inside Sam, because Dean and Castiel were no longer _making the beast with two backs_. But Dean missed him. His bed felt empty. He supposed he should be getting used to it now, but he wasn’t. Probably because he was too tired right now to learn new things, he thought ruefully.

The bed beside him was empty, too. Jody had booked a twin for them and a room for herself, apparently unaware that Dean and Castiel had ever been together. In fact, the more he thought about it, Dean was fairly certain she had no idea; he’d never told her. Had Sam? It was a moot point now, of course. They weren’t together any more.

Just a few months ago Dean had had so much: a brother, a lover, friendship, happiness. How quickly it all could change. 

Castiel was in Jody’s room now, trying to figure out a plan. Dean lay and stared at the ceiling, wondering how they were getting on, wanting to sleep, needing to sleep, wanting his brother back, needing his brother back. 

He got neither.

 

* * *

 

Crowley was still ghosting them. It was infuriating – all those times he’d popped up where he wasn’t wanted, and now, when they did want him, he did this. Jody suggested some kind of summoning spell but Castiel shot that idea down, claiming that Crowley had grown wise and found enchantments to block them since they’d last tried. He was out there somewhere, ignoring them, and there was nothing they could do about it.

“We could see if Rowena can get through to him,” Dean suggested, ignoring the suspicious look Jody was giving him right now. She could see he hadn’t slept, but he wasn’t going to admit it. Her ‘worried’ face was more than he could handle at the moment.

“I spoke to Rowena during the night,” Castiel said, leaning back in his chair and gazing upwards, clearly annoyed. “She says Crowley’s blanking her, too. Not that they have the closest relationship, of course. But it’s interesting that he’s gone so silent.”

“Did she have any idea what this thing inside Sam could be?” Dean asked.

“None. But we did talk about the Daevas. She has a spell that could help us despatch them – and failing that, I think the light from my grace could work. So we have options now.”

Dean nodded, pleased. Some good news at last. Then he frowned. “How did you know that the thing inside Sam had been to Hell? You asked if it was a demon and by its reaction, it looked like you weren’t far off the mark there.”

Castiel shook his head. “It said it hadn’t been around for two hundred years. There are only a few places where something that evil could have been kept for all that time without us hearing of it.”

“Well, it seemed you were right,” Dean said, thoughtfully. “That would explain why it just came out of nowhere. And hey, maybe it’s done something to Crowley and that’s why we can’t find him.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel said, although he didn’t sound convinced.

“Even if it hasn’t, we should hope that’s what it’s going to do,” Jody said. When they both looked at her, she continued: “Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend, guys. If what has Sam is going to go up against Crowley, he’ll be on our side.”

“Crowley would also kill Sam in a heartbeat if they faced off,” Dean said, bleakly.

Jody leaned forward, meeting his gaze. “Dean, you know I love Sam. You know I do. And I understand how hard this is for you. But... he’s killing people. He’s not Sam, not really. If it carries on, with or without Crowley’s help, we’re going to have to take him out. And that could mean taking Sam out, too. You should be prepared.”

Dean looked away, unnerved by her intensity. “Yeah, well, that’s not really something I’m willing to prepare for. Ever. We’ll get him back. We will.”

 

* * *

 

But nothing happened. Sam was silent. There were no murders, no signs. After three days, Jody went back home as she was unable to take more time off, and Dean was sorry to see her go. She was a force of light in his life: someone who always cut through the crap, who had his back, but wasn’t bitter and twisted from a life of hunting and loss, even though she’d had her share of grief. She really cared about Sam, too.

The more time that passed, the more Dean worried that they weren’t going to get him back. What if it was impossible? What if there really was no hope? Dean couldn’t kill his brother. He just couldn’t. 

But what was in Sam was murdering innocent people.

 _God,_ Dean was tired.

Eventually, he and Castiel decided to leave town the next morning and head back to the bunker – there was no point hanging around when Sam had so clearly moved on. It was 10pm now and Dean was packing his bag, feeling exhaustion in every atom of his body, his fingers shaking as he picked up socks, when he realized that Castiel was staring at him.

“What?” he asked, feeling oddly defensive.

“You need sleep,” Castiel observed.

“Yeah, so what else is new?”

“Why won’t you let me help?”

Dean thought about Castiel’s powers, how he could knock Dean out in an eyeblink. “Because I don’t want you to,” he replied, looking away. 

“You’re worn out, Dean. You will be no help to your brother in this state.”

“That’s my problem.” 

Castiel fell silent. Dean finished packing and zipped up his bag.

“You’re punishing yourself,” Castiel said.

Dean sighed. He ran a hand down his face and leaned back on the wall between their beds, clunking his head back on the plaster as he stared upwards at nothing. He couldn’t even think of what to say. It was true: he _was_ punishing himself. He hated the fact he’d let this happen to Sam. He hated the fact his brother was missing, that their lives were turned upside-down, that Sam was doing such terrible things – and, if they did get him back, that he would carry that guilt with him forever. He hated that it was _his fault_ that Castiel had suffered so much at the hands of the Sluagh – that the fucking thing had used his face to mess with his head to such an extent that even now, years later, Castiel couldn’t decide which of his feelings were real and which weren’t. It was his fault that Castiel was so screwed up. Him. Dean. He was the common denominator here. 

He didn’t want to be well-rested and relaxed because he didn’t deserve to be. 

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Castiel watched him for a little while, then rose to his feet. He walked up to Dean and stood before him, blocking his way out from between the beds, and looked him straight in the eyes. Dean felt a shudder run through him: that gaze always did weird shit to his insides.

“You are always so hard on yourself,” Castiel said. “You shouldn’t be suffering for things that aren’t your fault.”

“He’s gone, Cas,” Dean replied, suddenly feeling tears prickle in the corners of his eyes. “I don’t know how to get him back. Everything’s broken. We’re broken. The world’s broken.”

Castiel raised a hand to his face, stroking his cheek gently, his fingers rasping on stubble. “It can be fixed. It can always be fixed.”

“How? How do we fix this, Cas?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said, shaking his head. His eyes were full of regret. “But I can share your burden.”

“You have enough of your own,” Dean murmured, unconsciously leaning into the warmth of his palm on his cheek. 

Castiel smiled, just a little. “Fewer than before,” he said, and leaned in to kiss Dean’s lips.

Dean’s entire body tensed. 

He didn’t know what to do. Castiel had said repeatedly that he didn’t have sexual feelings any more: he felt no lust, no desire, nothing.

Why was he kissing him? What was he doing? 

It was difficult, but eventually he pulled away, placing a hand on Castiel’s chest, breathing hard.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Castiel said, gazing at him serenely. 

“No – no, Cas, it’s not. Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s what you need.” 

Dean swallowed, trying to control his breathing. “What is it you think I need, exactly?”

Castiel placed a hand on his neck. “Comfort,” he said, and leaned in to kiss his jawline. “Peace,” he added, and kissed him on his forehead, between his eyes. “Release,” he said, and his hand fell to Dean’s crotch, stroking it meaningfully.

“You said this isn’t you any more,” Dean whispered, and bit his lip. _Damn._ That felt good. “You said you didn’t feel this kind of... emotion now.” 

Castiel kissed him gently. “I know,” he breathed against his mouth, “but you are hurting yourself, and I want to make it stop. I can help. Let me help.”

Dean moaned, wriggling as Castiel’s hand started undoing the buttons on his jeans. He was admirably fast at it and the hand was soon inside his pants, its warm fingers wrapped around his dick, moving it so the tip rubbed against the denim teasingly. 

“Cas – _fuck_ – this is nice ‘n’ all, but I feel like... it feels like... God, that’s... _ahhh_... Fuck, it feels like I’m kinda... forcing you. This isn’t really you, is it?”

“Force me, Dean,” Castiel said in a husky voice, nipping at his lower lip. “You can do what you want, it’s up to you. I’m yours. I’m all yours. Do you want to fuck me, Dean? You can fuck me. Fuck me until you–”

Dean had heard enough; it was too much, too fast, and without another thought his lust had taken over and his body seemed to move of its own accord. With a growl, he spun Castiel around and slammed him back-first against the wall. Castiel gasped, then his eyes narrowed and he glared at Dean, licking his lips, looking wanton and ruffled and everything Dean wanted to fuck right now.

He kissed him. He kissed him long and hard, relishing the taste of him, the warmth of him, the familiarity of his tongue against his. Castiel’s hips bucked against his playfully and those hot, dextrous fingers did things to his cock that made Dean hitch in his breath, shocked, and then they were kissing some more – hard and painful, Dean leaning so heavily against Castiel that he wondered if his shoulders were going to make a dent in the wall. 

He forgot everything. He forgot his tiredness, his anxiety, his sadness. All he knew was that Castiel was here and he wanted to be inside him more than anything else in the world right now. He was as hard as a rock in no time and he groaned from the speed of it, from _those_ fingers on his penis as though they’d never been away, and then he was pulling down his jeans and underwear as Castiel turned so that he was face-first against the wall, spreading his legs and removing his own pants more gracefully than any person in that position should have been able to do. 

Then Dean stopped, his head spinning. “We need lube,” he grunted, turning around and reaching into his bag on the bed beside them.

“I don’t,” said Castiel, sounding surprisingly calm given the situation.

“Yeah, well, I don’t wanna hurt you.” Even as the words left his lips he realized it was a dumb thing to say: angels couldn’t feel pain from such trivial things. It was a sign of how tired he was that it had even occurred to him to think that.

Castiel reached out and put a hand on Dean’s arm. “I don’t care. Hurt me, or try to. I want you to use me and I don’t want you to hold back.”

Dean hesitated. He was freaked out by the idea of Castiel wanting to be hurt, even if he knew it wouldn’t happen; but he also knew that Castiel’s ass was tight and he sometimes found it awkward to enter him. Lube might still be a good idea right now. He froze, trying to decide what to do, but Castiel solved the issue for him by pulling him backwards and away from his bag, twisting and kissing him for all he was worth. 

“Mmph,” Dean mumbled, shocked, when the kiss was over. He placed a fist around his cock and shivered, realizing that he was sweating, and then Castiel was facing the wall again and Dean was staring at his shoulderblades before his eyes, then down at his ass, muscled and pale in the orange glow of the motel lights. 

“Come on,” Castiel ordered, sounding impatient. 

Dean frowned, suddenly annoyed at how insane this all was, how illogical; first Castiel wanted him, then he dumped him, and now he was ordering Dean to fuck him as though nothing had happened? Fickle bastard. Gritting his teeth, irritated, Dean maneuvered himself until he was ready to go, then closed his eyes and took a deep, tension-filled breath. 

“Are you _sure_ you’re sure about this?”

Castiel’s shoulders twitched. “Dean, are you going to fuck me or not?” he asked, sounding pissed.

“Screw you,” Dean muttered, and then he was pushing inside him with an aggression he couldn’t control, desperate for the tightness, for the friction, for that hot, insistent _squeeze_ of muscle against his cock. It was visceral, a disgusting and yet glorious sensation, and he thrusted forward with a grunt, then another, and pumped so hard he slammed Castiel against the plaster and heard him grunt in return. 

“Yes,” Castiel hissed, unexpectedly pushing backwards with his hips, making Dean almost bite his tongue in surprise. “Come on, do it, yes, Dean – come on, fuck me.”

Dean obliged: he fucked him hard, his hands squeezing Castiel’s hips, his head alternately flung back and then his forehead resting on the back of Castiel’s neck. He kissed his shoulders as he pumped, licking and biting, tasting him and _feeling_ him, and as he fucked he became lost, a mess of sensation and delirious _need_. 

“Yes, yes,” groaned Castiel. “Yes... fuck me, yes, Dean, that’s it... fuck me...”

Even in the midst of everything it suddenly hit Dean that Castiel was going through the motions, saying phrases that didn’t sound like him, repeating what a million others had said to him before. He swept a hand down to Castiel’s groin to find that he wasn’t hard. He wasn’t out of breath or shaking or even warmer than usual. Castiel was only there in body; he wasn’t there in spirit. This was... 

This was Castiel doing something he didn’t want to do in order to make Dean happy.

Holy shit, this was a _pity fuck._

As soon as he thought it, a wave of guilt swept over Dean and he almost pulled away – but then Castiel moved his hips from side-to-side and pushed backwards, moaning like a porn star, and Dean just couldn’t stop himself: Castiel felt so good and Dean was so close, he was so ready, he couldn’t hold it for much longer, his body was still moving and he couldn’t control it, he was–

He came in a series of frantic, almost painful jerks, his face buried in the nape of Castiel’s neck, his cock so deep inside him it felt like he’d never get it back; his hips and buttocks pumping and pumping until he couldn’t move another muscle from exhaustion. It was glorious: he came hot and messy, his orgasm a blessed, molten _release_ that swept everything from his mind and left him inside-out, empty, half-asleep and barely conscious.

When he was finally done Castiel twisted himself free, turned and put his arms around Dean for a long, long time as he shuddered, coming down hard and brutal. He felt as though he was either going to pass out or start hallucinating: sex on so little sleep was a weird, hazy experience.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Castiel said after a while, stroking his sweaty hair.

“It’s not,” Dean gasped against his skin, his eyes closed tight against the feelings coursing through him. “It’s not, Cas, it’s not. You didn’t want to do that, I know you didn’t, you shouldn’t have to do things like that if you don’t want to. It isn’t fair.”

“It was _my_ choice,” Castiel said, confirming Dean’s suspicions. “Nothing changes that. And I did it for you.”

Dean gulped in air and his legs started to tremble. Castiel’s arms tightened around him in response. “Fuck it, Cas, this is so fucked up,” he moaned. “We’re so fucked up. Both of us, we’re fucked up.”

“It does seem to be our default position, yes,” Castiel replied with some alacrity.

Dean huffed, almost laughing, and then he finally looked up, meeting Castiel’s gaze. “Why couldn’t you hear me praying?” he asked.

Castiel frowned. “When?”

“When I was locked in the dungeon. I prayed so hard, Cas. I was even praying when you walked by the door, but you didn’t hear me. Why didn’t you hear me?”

“I... I don’t know.” Castiel looked bemused. 

“I thought maybe you’d, I dunno, blocked me somehow. That you were ghosting me.”

“Ghosting?”

Dean looked down. “It doesn’t matter. It... nothing matters.”

“You need sleep. Come on, Dean, get on the bed.”

He didn’t argue. Castiel kept an arm around him as he pushed him down, and Dean didn’t object when his legs were lifted onto the sheets. He lay naked, too exhausted to care, too tired even to think about cleaning himself up.

“May I?” asked Castiel, holding two fingers to Dean’s forehead.

Dean stared at them, almost going cross-eyed. “It’s not real sleep,” he murmured. “It’s not... natural. It feels like cheating.”

“Your body is currently flushed with oxytocin and prolactin, chemicals which greatly enhance your ability to fall asleep. I’m just hastening the process.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, perplexed. “How do you know that?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Cas, did you actually... holy shit, did you _Google_ insomnia to see if sex would make me fall asleep?”

Castiel sighed. “Okay, yes, I did. Now will you please shut up and let me put you under?”

Amused, Dean closed his eyes. Fingers touched his forehead, and he knew no more.

 

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please check the warnings before reading.**

* * *

Waking up the next morning was like waking up as a whole new person.

Dean opened his eyes and lay still for a few minutes, wondering why he felt so different, and then he realized it was because he wasn’t tired. He didn’t ache. His eyes didn’t feel like hot grit had been poured into them. His body felt normal. His mind wasn’t sluggish. He was... _well-rested_.

He sat up, scratching an itch on the back of his neck, then knuckled sleep out of his left eye. He was alone; the sun was up and he could hear birds singing. He looked at his watch. 10am. He rubbed his right eye and sniffed, enjoying the sensation of not feeling like shit.

And then a cold, hard rock settled in his stomach as he remembered _Sam._

His contentment was fleeting: he had no right to feel so good while his brother was still out there. He sighed, shaking his head, and threw back the sheets so he could shower and get the hell on with trying to find him again.

He was naked. Surprised, Dean looked down at himself and remembered, in one giant – albeit very pleasant – rush what had happened the night before. 

“Huh,” he muttered. 

Well, he hadn’t expected _that_ to happen. He’d really had no idea Castiel was even considering such a thing. As Dean showered, he almost felt sad to be washing Castiel’s DNA off his body: after all, it would probably never get there again, unless there were more pity fucks in the future. 

But Dean wasn’t sure he wanted another. It was degrading, in a way, although he had definitely enjoyed it. Yet he knew that if he hadn’t been so tired he might have been able to challenge Castiel’s decision rather than just getting caught up in lust. Despite the fact he knew Castiel was just trying to make him feel better, there was way too much baggage in his past for sex to be anything but problematic. And so last night’s events, while simple in the surface, could have dredged up all sorts of shit that Dean could only guess at. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how _he_ felt about what had happened yet. 

_Why is everything so fucking complicated?_ he thought, rinsing soap off his dick. _Why can’t a fuck just be a fuck?_

He thought about how Castiel had held him after he came, and a wave of sadness swept over him. 

_And why can’t I just have Cas?_

 

* * *

 

When Dean left the bathroom, a towel around his waist and one around his head, letting an enormous cloud of steam follow him into the room, he found Castiel was waiting for him.

“I brought you coffee.”

Dean nodded as Castiel put the cup down on the table. “Thanks.”

Castiel looked him up and down. “You slept for a long time.”

Dean reached into his bag for a clean t-shirt, shooting him a wry grin. “Yeah, that’s what happens when all those _chemicals_ get released into my bloodstream ‘n’ stuff. They definitely helped me sleep. Better than taking some Ambien.”

Castiel twitched a smile in return, then put his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Incidentally, while you were asleep Rowena called – she’s annoyed we haven’t sent her payment yet.”

Dean snorted. “We’ve had too much on our minds to worry about FedExing a damn feather over to Sabrina the geriatric witch.”

Castiel frowned. “She can be... disagreeable. I think we should make a point of stopping at the first post office we see on the way home.”

“You have the feather with you?” Dean was surprised. Castiel didn’t bring much in the way of possessions when they traveled, and Dean couldn’t think where he’d been storing an angel feather, which he assumed was pretty big. Of course, it could be a tiny, fluffy one – the kind of feather you’d find on a chick a few days old. Who the hell knew how many shapes and sizes they came in?

“Yes, I have it,” said Castiel, looking away. His tone clearly said _don’t ask me any more_ and Dean took the hint, but now his mind was racing. Was Castiel going to pluck out one of his own feathers? Did he even have wings any more? He knew he could no longer fly, but otherwise Dean had no clue. He hadn’t asked him. He hadn’t seen them in so long he usually forgot they even existed. It was strange to be reminded that Castiel was, despite their closeness, still an angel – something cosmic and weird, with hidden dimensions (maybe even literally). He’d gotten so used to having him around and, well, having him, that the fact he was an angel seemed inconsequential.

“Rowena also said she has been unable to find out why Crowley is ignoring us,” Castiel continued, as Dean blinked back to the present. “She says she questioned some demons – I presume with the use of force – and all they would say is that he’s on ‘some kind of mission’.”

“That doesn’t sound worrying at all,” Dean grunted, pulling on his jeans. “Whenever Crowley’s up to something we don’t know about, it makes my skin crawl.”

Castiel shrugged. “Well, he _is_ the King of Hell. I suppose he does have a lot to do, and most of it would seem objectionable to us.”

“Let’s just hope it’s nothing to do with finding and killing Sam,” Dean said. He picked up the coffee and took a swig. “Although we still don’t know what’s going on – that thing inside Sam could be working for Crowley, for all we know.”

Dean’s phone beeped. He put the coffee down and picked it up, feeling his heart beat faster – it was a Pavlovian response these days, as anybody contacting him could have news of Sam. What he saw, however, nearly made his heart stop.

“He just emailed me,” he hissed, opening the app.

“Who? Crowley?” 

“No. Sam.” 

“What does it say?”

Dean read the email, his forehead creasing. “What the fuck?”

 _Dear Mr Winchester,_ the email said. _You are cordially invited to a prayer meeting at 4pm today in Maryville, Illinois – instructions for how to find us are attached to this email._

_Bring the angel but leave the Sheriff. This concerns your disgusting carnal relationship and will end with your penitence. Please note: there will be blood._

_Your brother and I are looking forward to seeing you again. Feel free to bring snacks._

“This is just a game to it,” Dean snapped, holding his phone out for Castiel to read. “Some stupid, childish game, but people are dying and Sam could be next.”

Castiel’s expression grew solemn. “It’s clearly a trap.”

“Wow, ya _think?_ ”

“We need to leave now or we won’t make it in time,” Castiel continued, ignoring him. “And we need to figure out how we’re going to approach this.”

Dean sighed and closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to calm his heartbeat. Then he opened them again. “How did Rowena say she could help us with the Daevas?”

 

* * *

 

It was a long, tense journey, and Dean could barely focus on the road before him because he was so busy trying to decide what to do. They needed a foolproof plan: something clever and effective, that Sam wouldn’t see coming so that he couldn’t accidentally tip off the creature inside him – a huge drawback to it being able to read his mind. He and Castiel threw ideas around for hours, but inspiration wasn’t forthcoming; everything they came up with was too flawed or too obvious.

In the end Dean simply learnt the spell Rowena provided to chase away the Daevas. If the thing inside Sam was using them as guard dogs, perhaps it meant it was vulnerable, and Castiel was certainly strong enough to overpower most supernatural creatures. With the Daevas out of the way, they might be able to reach Sam and immobilize him. 

Of course, the Daevas could just be a distraction. Whatever had Sam could be more powerful than they suspected.

With that in mind, Dean put the rest of his energy into trying to think of what to say to his brother that might empower him to fight back against the invader in his body.

“You can’t assume that will work, Dean,” Castiel scolded him. 

“Look, Sam’s strong,” Dean pointed out. “He’s a fighter. He managed to get control back from Lucifer that time, didn’t he? He can do it again.”

“But we don’t even know what’s inside him this time.”

“It won’t be stronger than an archangel, Cas. It can’t be. All I have to do is get through to Sam and maybe he can defeat it.”

“Dean, talking is just... talking. We need something more concrete.”

“ _Dammit,_ Cas!” Dean tightened his hands on the steering wheel, glaring at his passenger for as long as he dared without looking at the road ahead. “We got no other option, okay? This thing could kill Sam in a heartbeat, we have no clue what it is and we can’t think of anything else to do. Sam’s our only hope. If he can get control of his body back for a few seconds, maybe we can trap that thing inside him somehow. He’ll be able to help us, I know it.”

“It’s a big risk to take,” Castiel said. 

His reasonableness made Dean’s teeth grind with frustration.“Well, what do _you_ think we should do?”

Castiel fell silent. 

“Yeah, thought so.”

“It has something planned,” Castiel said after a few moments, frowning. “It will try to kill you. And possibly me, if it knows how.”

“Then I can stop the car and let you out now,” Dean offered, keeping his voice even. “This is my problem, Cas. Sam is my brother. If it wants us both, then let’s not give it that. Save yourself and let me deal with Sam.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m going.”

Dean didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t surprised. If Castiel was one thing, it was loyal. 

They drove in silence for a long while. Eventually, after his mind had wandered down a different avenue of thought, Dean shot Castiel an appraising look. 

“We need to talk about last night.”

The response came so quickly it was clear that Castiel had been waiting for Dean to bring it up. “It was just sex, Dean, there’s no need to read anything into it.” 

Dean snorted. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last year, it’s that with you it’s never ‘just’ sex. Cas, you said you didn’t see me in that way any more, and then last night–”

“It was therapy, of a sort,” Castiel interrupted, looking out of the side window so Dean couldn’t see his face. “You needed to relax, I had the means for you do so. There was nothing else to it.”

“But you had sex with me even though you weren’t interested!” Dean protested, realizing how awful it sounded even as it came out of his mouth. “I should’ve said no, Cas, and I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Dean. I offered. I don’t see why you seem to be stuck on this.”

Dean shifted in his seat. “Because it felt fucked up, Cas. One-sided sex feels like... I dunno. It feels like... prostitution. Like I forced you. I can’t stop thinking it’s no different from what the demons did to you.” 

Even as he said it he regretted it: every time he brought up his imprisonment it made Castiel tense, and now was no exception. The temperature in the car seemed to fall by ten degrees. 

“Dean, I don’t want to talk about this any more,” Castiel said, in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. He still didn’t turn to face him; just stared stiffly out of the side window.

Dean swallowed down an unexpected surge of bile. The consent issues surrounding their relationship were seriously freaking him out. In a way, Castiel had made him feel like a rapist. He remembered the time he’d had to fuck him to feed the psycho bits of metal on his neck and wrists: at least Castiel had seemed into it back then, as fucked-up and brainwashed as he was. Last night had been different. Castiel was of sound mind now, they’d already had a passionate relationship, and yet he’d just... gone through the motions. There was fondness there, yes, but Dean had never had sex before with a partner who meant so much to him but who hadn’t responded in kind. The more time passed, the worse he felt about it.

But he didn’t say anything. They were driving to meet a monster in Sam’s body and they could be dead by the end of the day. 

Compared to that, sex didn’t really seem that important.

 

* * *

They arrived at the tiny wooden church in Maryville with half an hour to spare before 4pm. There were three cars parked on the grass outside, rain pinging loudly off metal as it came down in sheets on top of them. The sun was just beginning to set and there was nobody around, but there was a light on inside the church. 

Dean stared at it, bracing himself, then looked over at Castiel. 

“Last chance to leave,” he said, swallowing nervously.

Castiel met his eyes, saying nothing. Then he opened the car door and climbed out, walking through the rain to the church’s entrance, so quickly that Dean had to scramble to catch up to him. 

They were in this together, then.

The interior of the church was a repeat performance of the barn they’d been in the previous week. It stank of blood and meat, the walls glistening red and slimy, although only half of them had been painted this time and the ceiling was still bare – barring a few bursts of what could only be arterial spray. 

There were five dead bodies hanging by their necks from a crossbeam over the altar, swaying gently in the breeze from the open door. They’d been completely skinned, nothing more than muscle and wet flesh now. Dean gagged as he looked up at them. 

At least this time there were no children. It was a small comfort, but he’d salvage what he could out of this nightmare.

Sam was standing by the altar. He was coated head-to-toe in blood, his eyes shining white from a scarlet face, his hair still dripping. He turned to look at the new arrivals and grinned: Dean gagged again at the sight of blood on his teeth, like badly-applied lipstick.

“You’re early!” Sam cried, looking inexplicably delighted. “Punctuality is such a lost skill these days, so I appreciate it. Do you like my latest artwork?” He pointed upwards at the gruesome remains on the ropes. “I have such fun creating them, particularly out of the pious. They always taste the best, too.”

Dean had opened his mouth to speak, but he suddenly had to close it again. _Taste_ the best? Was this thing _eating_ people? But that meant... Sam was... 

“Oh dear, I shocked you,” Sam continued, reading Dean’s expression. “Don’t worry: that old saying ‘a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips’ isn’t really true.”

“Sam, you need to fight this creature,” Castiel declared, ignoring the implications of his comment. Dean shot him a surprised look; it seemed he was on board with his plan to try to get through to Sam after all. “We know you’re strong enough. We have faith in you. You can defeat it.”

Sam smiled. Despite the blood and gore covering his face, it was still such a familiar expression that Dean felt a stab of pain inside him. 

“Bless your heart, Castiel. Do you really think little Sammy’s going to get control back? After he watched me kill so many people, screaming the whole time, begging me to stop but unable to do anything about it? I don’t think so, my angel friend.”

Dean found his voice at last. “Sammy, you can do this,” he said, taking a step forward. “This thing isn’t strong enough to keep you down. You’ve fought bigger assholes than this before and I know you can do it now.”

Sam frowned. “Is this your plan? Really? To try to talk your brother into fighting back? I have to say, I was expecting something rather more clever. You have the Colt, after all – aren’t you going to shoot me? You don’t have to kill your dear Sam, just injure him and disable me. It’s not rocket science, as Sam would say. I’m quite disappointed in you both.”

Dean twitched. They’d considered that very option, but deemed it too dangerous. A bullet in the wrong place and Sam would be dead. He stared at his brother, trying to gauge what to do next, and the thing inside him stared back with a smug expression that was nothing like Sam at all. 

“What is it that you’re doing here?” Castiel asked, still a masterclass in calm. “There must be some kind of purpose to all this killing.”

Sam nodded, tearing his eyes away from Dean, who shuddered in their wake. “I’m creating art,” he said, peering up at the red walls of the church. “Remember I told you about how Sam loves that painter, Bob Ross? He also watched a television series called _Hannibal_ a few years ago and I could see it in his mind. It struck a chord with me. I feel I’m treading in dear Doctor Lecter’s footsteps, although of course he’s not a real person. Television is so peculiar; you humans get so invested in it, don’t you? Anyway, I already had a few ideas and it helped me shape them. And I fancied doing something a little different to the last time I walked the Earth. Back then I didn’t have much opportunity to stretch my artistic muscles; I was too weak, too constrained by my human form. And of course most of the deaths I saw were duels and fights about honor. Very boring to watch, and they wouldn’t let me take part because I wasn’t really allowed out of...”

He trailed off. For a moment, just a moment, Dean saw something cross Sam’s face: a chink in its armor, a hesitation. It had been about to say something that could give them ammunition, he thought, and opened his mouth to ask a question, but then Sam recovered himself and shot him a knowing smile.

“But enough of that,” he said, waving a hand. “Let’s get on with things.”

Dean felt the Daevas’ presence before they reached him. They were fast, but he still had enough time to reach into his pocket and pull out the spell bag. He threw it to the floor on the aisle and shouted the words Rowena had given him; at the same time, Castiel lifted a hand beside him, his eyes glowing with unearthly blue light that traveled down his arm to his palm.

The church filled with a light so intense that it reminded Dean of a nuclear blast. The spell had protected him as he cast it, but he was dazzled regardless; he threw up a hand and covered his eyes with a gasp of pain, seeing the blood vessels in his eyelids illuminated for a few milliseconds before he managed to block out the glare. 

And then it was gone. He looked up, blinking, and glanced across at Castiel, who stared around the church and nodded.

The Daevas were no more. 

“All done?” asked Sam, sounding bored.

Dean frowned at him. Why didn’t he look surprised or concerned? Without the Daevas he had no protection from Castiel. Did this mean he was stronger than an angel after all?

Castiel was clearly counting on that fact. “Release Sam,” he snapped, striding up the aisle towards the altar, his entire body radiating power and determination. Dean followed, pulling the Colt out of his pocket – he didn’t intend to use it, but it felt good to have it ready just in case.

Sam barked out a laugh before waving his hand again. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw a door open behind the altar–

–and then there was a glint of silver and Castiel was being thrown backwards, landing in a heap in the middle of the pews, smashing wood as he landed with an almighty _crash_. Dean had just enough time to see the hilt of an angel blade sticking upright from his body before he was being thrown through the air himself. 

Like Castiel, he landed in the middle of a bank of pews, but rather than breaking every bone in his body by smashing the furniture to pieces, he was lucky enough to land between two rows. The only bit of him that actually hit wood was his forehead, and he hit it hard enough that he nearly blacked out. He lay still afterwards, face down on the tiled floor, fighting pain and unconsciousness, his entire head ringing with what he already dimly realized was a concussion.

By the time he was self-aware enough to pull himself upright and look around, groggy and disoriented, Castiel was pinned to the wall ten feet away with his arms spread out to each side, struggling futilely against some kind of invisible force. Light poured from the wound on his chest. The blade was rammed cruelly into his collarbone; just a few inches south and he would have died.

Whatever had thrown the blade at him had done so with astonishing accuracy, assuming the thing inside Sam hadn’t actually wanted him dead outright. But what had happened? 

The realization hit Dean embarrassingly slowly as he blinked at the scene before him. The reason Castiel couldn’t move was because he was being held in place by a Daeva. Sam had kept one back as a reserve, armed with an angel blade, hidden in the room behind the altar, safe from the light. 

He’d known that they would attack the Daevas as soon as they arrived – of _course_ he’d known. Sam would’ve figured it out, and then the thing inside him would’ve known too. They were, of course, trying to outwit someone who could see all their tricks coming.

“I’m glad we got that nonsense out of the way,” Sam was saying, weaving his way through splintered pews towards Castiel. He stopped by Dean, looking down at him thoughtfully. Dean glared upwards, trying to meet his gaze with defiance, but blood was dripping into his eyes now and he had to wipe it away with his sleeve, his arm shaking.

“Give me the Colt,” Sam ordered.

Dean looked down at his bloody hand, confused. Wait, wasn’t he holding it? No, he wasn’t. Where was it?

Sam read his bewilderment correctly and sighed, looking around. He held out a hand and, to Dean’s surprise, the Colt slid from under a pew and flew up into his grip. “There,” he said, putting it in the back of his jeans. “Let’s keep this nice and safe.”

Then he did something bizarre. Leaning down, he sniffed Dean with an exaggerated, almost comical flourish. He straightened, frowning, and marched over to Castiel – then did the same thing, staring him straight in the eyes as he sniffed.

“Well, well, well,” he said, his voice deep and dangerous. “It seems you two had carnal relations just a few hours ago. And there was Sam telling me you’d broken up and Dean here was completely heartbroken about it.” Unexpectedly, he laughed, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Dean. “Dear little Sam, do you see how devastated your brother is about losing you? So upset that he still has time to ride his whore of an angel like a rodeo cowboy! So much for _grief_.”

Dean shuddered. He wanted to scream at this thing inside his brother – tell him that this was none of his business, that he was a freak, that he had to _get the hell away from Sammy_. But he was too shaken, his ears still ringing, a headache pounding inside his skull that was making him feel sick. He blinked blood away from his left eye and threw a hand out to the pew beside him, leaning on it for support, hoping that he wasn’t going to pass out because then it really would be game over.

“You can fight this, Sam,” Castiel grunted, trying vainly to force his body away from the wall. The wound to his shoulder was clearly weakening him; he should have been able to use his grace-light to burn away the Daeva, but it didn’t seem as though he could.

Dean belatedly realized that he should have made another spell bag. It was a moot point, though: he couldn’t even remember the spell now. 

Damn, his head hurt.

“You’re a very disappointing angel,” Sam grunted, putting a hand around Castiel’s neck and leaning forward. “Ugh, you stink of human. After everything you’ve been through, everything they did to you during those years... you willingly allow yourself to fornicate with this man? You let him inside you? You actually allow him to... to...” He stopped, apparently unable to say the words. Turning, he spat on the floor. “Filthy, you’re _filthy_. You’re a wretched, foul, dirty creature and it makes me want to rip your skin off and burn it. Maybe I should. I should purify you. I can’t purify _him_ , he’s human – he’s already corrupted by Original Sin. But you... you could be cleansed. I could burn you and you could be reborn as an innocent.”

“That would be utterly pointless,” Castiel said, his voice shaking a little. Dean thought it was from pain rather than fear.

“Yes, yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” Sam smiled, placing a bloodied hand on Castiel’s cheek. “And anyway, while I don’t agree with you fraternizing with a man – it is a sin that I cannot bear to leave unpunished – I am glad that your grace is so corrupted. It will taste bitter, yes, but it will be weakened. I should still be able to use it.”

And with those words, Sam dropped his hand to the hilt of the angel blade and yanked it from Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel cried out, his body arching away from the wall, but then he was slammed back onto it again as Sam placed his mouth over the wound and–

Dean watched, stunned, as Sam started to suck the light out of Castiel’s body.

_He was drinking his grace._

Castiel’s eyes rolled up in his head and his body stiffened, freezing in place, helpless. Dean stared, blinking through a red haze that he only belatedly realized was blood from his forehead. He wiped it away, ignoring the stinging in his eyes, transfixed by what he was watching. How the hell was this thing drinking angel grace? If it was some kind of demon, it would kill it – hell, it should kill anything! Nothing but another angel could tolerate that kind of power inside it. So what in the name of–

But as Dean struggled to comprehend what he was seeing, Sam suddenly jerked backwards. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and made a nasty hacking noise, turning sideways and bending over, shoulders shuddering. He froze for a few seconds, then straightened and stared at Castiel balefully.

“I guess you’re still too sweet for me after all,” he spat, licking his lips.

Castiel’s body relaxed slightly. He closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths, then looked up at Sam with a hatred that took Dean’s breath away. 

It didn’t quite have the desired effect, however; Sam laughed. 

“Did I make you mad?” he mocked, patting Castiel on the cheek patronizingly. “Don’t get too cocky, angel, because I haven’t finished with you yet. Just because I can’t drink you now doesn’t mean I won’t find a way. And I will, don’t worry – I’m not missing out on all that lovely power.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a glass vial with a cork stopper. Dean’s brain was moving too sluggishly to realize its significance until suddenly Sam had the angel blade in his hand again and was slicing a thin line across Castiel’s throat. 

“No!” Dean yelled, shocked. But there was nothing he could do: Sam pushed Castiel’s head backwards and held out the vial, watching with a sly smile as blue liquid light poured out of his body and into the bottle. 

It was over surprisingly quickly.

“There!” said Sam, triumphant. He held out the bottle, shaking it a little; Castiel’s grace swirled around in a beautiful, gauzy cloud. “Just what I’ve always wanted. I’m surprised it’s still this color though – I would have thought it would be black by now from all the lust, you depraved glutton.”

Castiel’s head fell forward. Dean tried to move closer, crawling on unsteady hands, but the room began to spin and he had to stop, gulping in air that tasted of blood. When he looked up again he saw that Castiel was barely conscious, the cut oozing blood from his neck, but it didn’t look deep enough to represent danger. The wound on his shoulder was bleeding copiously now though, staining his blue shirt dark, and Castiel’s face was gray and coated with sweat. 

He was human. Not just temporarily, either. Until he got his grace back, he was as human as Dean was. 

Sam glanced over at him and smiled, his teeth blazing white from his bloodied face. “Now comes the fun part,” he said. “Dean, did you know that I like to hurt people in _strange ways?_ ”

He turned back to Castiel and stood directly in front of him, blocking Dean’s view. All he could see of Castiel were his arms, held flat on the wall either side of his body by the invisible Daeva. Sam lowered his hands until they were out of sight, hidden between their bodies, and leaned forward. Dean couldn’t see what he was doing, but suddenly Castiel moaned in pain and Dean heard him thump against the wall. 

“Leave him alone!” Dean screamed, frantic. What the hell was going on? Where were Sam’s hands? His elbows were only a little bent, so whatever he was doing seemed to be at crotch-level. Why would his hands be there? What was he doing? 

Sam’s body shifted a little, moving closer to the form spreadeagled before him. 

Castiel screamed.

“ _No!_ ” Dean yelled, trying to get closer, but as he moved the room tilted sideways again and he hit the floor, disoriented. He lay for a few moments, stunned, listening to Castiel’s cries of agony, then hauled himself upright again by grabbing the back of a pew. The room rotated one more time and he held on tight, trying not to throw up. _Fucking concussion,_ he thought. _I need to get to Cas, I need to stop this..._

Castiel suddenly fell silent.

Sam stepped backwards, lifting his hands in the air in a gesture that seemed to say “I wasn’t doing anything!” He turned to Dean with a huge, triumphant smile. Dean blinked at him, then looked at Castiel. He was heaving in gigantic gulps of air, shaking all over, his face twisted in pain. Dean scanned his body, searching for new bloodstains on his clothes, anything that looked broken or twisted, but aside from the wound on his shoulder there was nothing. Whatever Sam had done had been enough to cause terrible pain, but he didn’t have a clue what it had been.

“Strange ways,” Sam repeated, winking at him. 

“Please, Sammy,” Dean begged, his eyes filling with tears. “Let him go. Please. You can have me, I swear it, but let Cas go. Make him let him go, Sammy, please, make him let him go.”

“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Sam replied, sniffing. He rubbed his nose, looking thoughtful; the action smudged the blood until whiteness showed through. “Hmm. I think I’ll get down to business now.”

He picked up the angel blade, its length still covered in Castiel’s blood. 

“Please, Sammy,” Dean said again, praying that his brother was listening, that he was able to do something, that he could stop this somehow. “Please, don’t let him do this! Fight him, Sammy, fight him!”

“You know, I’m getting rather annoyed at your insistence on calling me ‘him’.” 

Dean snapped his mouth shut, taken aback. 

“I suppose it’s hard to tell when I’m wearing such a giant hunk of manliness, but I’m a woman,” Sam said, archly. “And while I hail from a time long before feminism even existed, I’m fully aware of its significance today and I can assure you that the fact you assumed I’m male is _very_ sexist.”

Dean swallowed. “I don’t... I don’t care what you are,” he stammered, feeling as though he wasn’t really there; he felt as though he was floating, that this wasn’t reality. “You’re still inside my brother and he can fight you. You hear me, Sam? You can fight her. Please, Sam, don’t let her kill Cas, _please!_ ”

“I’m not going to kill him,” Sam said, as though he was discussing the weather. He turned back to Castiel, who was watching him through dazed, reddened eyes. “I’m just going to teach him a lesson. If he dies, that will be his own fault. He shouldn’t be putting things where they don’t belong.”

He lowered his hand to Castiel’s belt, undoing it. Dean watched in horror, his heart in his mouth. He looked up at Castiel and their eyes met: Castiel’s gaze was pain-filled, yet resigned. He knew he was helpless – he’d had his grace stolen, he was injured in ways Dean didn’t understand, and he clearly had no choice but to accept what was about to happen. It made Dean’s heart ache to see it all there on his face, and then Castiel tore his gaze away and looked down at Sam’s hands.

“Sammy, _please,_ ” Dean cried, dropping his eyes too. Sam was undoing the buttons on Castiel’s jeans. “Don’t do this, Sam, please! Fight her!”

“Are you going to watch?” Sam asked, glancing over his shoulder at Dean. “I think you should. You and Castiel’s little friend here have had so much fun together. It’s only fair that you should say goodbye.”

 _Oh god,_ Dean thought, suddenly understanding what was going on. _She’s going to cut it off. That sick fuck is going to... she’s going to... no, this can’t be happening, it can’t..._

Apparently the realization hit Castiel at the same time. He moaned and shifted, trying to back away from Sam’s hands against the wall. There was nothing he could do, though: the Daeva held him firm, and Sam didn’t even acknowledge the movement. He tugged at Castiel’s jeans until they lowered slightly, then reached out a hand to find what lay underneath. 

“Disgusting,” Sam muttered, sounding like an outraged grandmother. “The things you’ve done with this. You’re no angel.”

“Sam, no,” Castiel groaned, trying and failing to free himself. “Please, Sam, don’t let it do this.”

Sam lifted the blade.

“ _For fuck’s sake, Sammy, fight her!_ ” Dean yelled, his vision filling with bloodied tears.

Everything went still. 

Sam froze in place, the blade hovering over Castiel’s groin. 

Dean held his breath.

And then Sam stepped backwards. He looked down at the blade in his bloody hand.

“Sammy?” Dean gasped, his heart suddenly full of hope.

Sam shuddered. The blade fell to the floor, clattering loudly. He stared at his hands, spreading his fingers wide. Slowly, he turned to Dean, each movement seeming to take a phenomenal amount of effort.

“D–Dean...?” he croaked.

When their eyes met, Dean saw his brother looking back at him. 

“Yes!” Dean shouted, triumphant. “Yes! That’s it, Sammy, you’ve done it – you’ve beaten her! Keep fighting, you can do it!”

But Sam’s body was twitching now, a frown forming on his forehead. Dean watched helplessly as his brother’s eyes rolled and he bent over, clutching his head as he fought some kind of desperate battle inside his own mind. “No... stop,” he gasped, and then his body stiffened.

He straightened, any trace of resistance gone.

It was over.

“Well, that was unexpected,” the creature inside Sam announced brightly, shaking his hands as though he’d just washed them and was trying to dry them off. “Who knew little Sammy had it in him?”

“Sam, don’t give up,” Dean cried, but he already knew it was too late. This thing was too strong.

“Now, now, stop nagging your brother,” Sam said, wagging a finger at him. “Don’t you make him feel bad about not being able to keep it up for long. Although he kept it up for longer than _you_ will be able to after today, Castiel...”

And with that, Sam scooped the angel blade off the floor, took two steps over to Castiel, grabbed him between the legs and raised the blade.

“I know this isn’t you, Sam,” Castiel gasped, his eyes wide and earnest. “I forgive you.”

Sam’s arm moved. Dean opened his mouth to scream–

–and there was an explosion of light. 

He fell to the floor in shock, hiding his eyes beneath his hands. There was no sound; it was just a burst of brightness that washed away every shadow in the room, burning, unimaginably powerful. 

The light faded. Dean opened his eyes, relieved to see his fingers – he hadn’t gone blind. 

“Elizabeth, darling,” came a familiar voice. “What have I told you about playing with knives?”

Crowley was standing by the altar, unruffled and implacable, glaring at Sam like a father with an annoyed toddler. 

Dean gasped. _The cavalry had arrived._

Sam glared back at Crowley with an expression of hatred that was almost comical. Behind him, Castiel was sprawled on the floor, hugging his stomach with one arm, the other held awkwardly out to one side. The Daeva who had been holding him was gone, blasted to nothingness by Crowley’s arrival. Clearly, the King of Hell had been prepared. 

“Really, dear,” he was saying. “I know you love to strip and skin your victims, but _nobbling_ them seems a tad petty, don’t you think?”

“Castration is too good for him,” Sam snapped back.

“Well, you know me; I’m totally happy to lop off a man’s meat-and-two-veg if they’ve been naughty enough. It always brightens one’s day.” Crowley nodded at Castiel. “But I’m not sure our friendly angel here deserves it, given how none of the naughty things he’s been up to over the years were his choice.”

Sam shook his head, his eyes glinting with a terrifying fanaticism. He waved the blade at Dean. “Do you know what these two have been doing? Sex – consensual sex! Between men! Homosexual fornication! Of all the despicable acts. He must be punished!”

“These two?” Crowley shot Dean a surprised look and raised his eyebrows. “About bloody time! I’ve known civilizations rise and fall in less time than it’s taken you to get through your bloody foreplay. I’m glad to hear you’ve finally got down to some good, honest shagging.”

“It’s _disgusting!_ ” Sam barked.

“Times have changed, Lizzie dear,” Crowley said, placatingly. “Everybody’s boffing everybody else now. You’re just going to have to get over it. Hell, you could even try joining in – it’ll do wonders for your blood pressure. Or even better: come home.” His expression changed, growing serious... dangerous. “I’m asking nicely. I won’t ask you again. If you don’t come now, next time I’ll have to punish you. You’re in enough trouble already and I’m fed up of chasing you.”

Sam straightened to his full height. “I’m not going back.”

“Sorry, dear, but I’m afraid you don’t have much say in the matter.” 

Crowley lifted a hand, but suddenly Sam wasn’t there any more. 

The angel blade and the Colt both clattered to the floor, the sound uncomfortably loud amidst the ringing in Dean’s ears.

“Bollocks,” said Crowley, dropping his hand again. “I really thought I had her that time.”

Dean stared at him in shock for a few moments, then forced himself onto his knees. His head still spinning, he shuffled over to Castiel, ignoring Crowley completely. He only had the capacity to deal with one thing at a time right now. 

“Cas?” he asked, finally reaching his side. He placed a hand on Castiel’s arm, feeling as well as seeing how his entire body was shaking.

“I’m okay,” Castiel mumbled. His eyes were closed and his breath was coming in ragged gasps. 

“You’re not,” Dean said, because it was pretty clear that Castiel was lying. “What the hell did he... _she_ do to you?”

“I’ll be fine,” Castiel said tightly. “C-Crowley... he’s...”

“Hello, boys,” said Crowley, looming over them both. 

Dean looked up at him, unsure whether to be relieved or angry that he was finally here. “What the hell is going on?”

Crowley sighed and put his hands in his pockets. “We need to have a little talk,” he said. “As the whore said to the bishop.”

“What the hell has my brother?” Dean demanded.

“Her name is – or was, anyway – Elizabeth Rathborne. There was a bit of an unfortunate jailbreak from one of my cellblocks a few months ago... Totally my fault, mea culpa and all that. I’ve been rounding the naughty blighters up again, but she’s been surprisingly hard to track down.”

Dean was on pretty damn shaky ground right now mentally, but he knew one thing for sure: “She can’t be just a demon. She’s more powerful than that. She locked me in a Devil’s Trap and it didn’t affect her.”

Crowley tilted his head. “Oh, she’s powerful, but not that strong. There must have been something wrong with the trap.”

“She took my grace,” Castiel said from the floor, his eyes still closed. “She said she was going to... eat it.”

Crowley ran a hand down his face, fingers rasping on his stubble. “Crap. Well, I suppose that’s not really a surprise, given her history.”

“Her history?” Dean asked, but even as he said the words a wave of dizziness hit him and he had to throw out a hand to lean on the bloodsoaked wall beside him. _Fuck_ , he couldn’t cope with all this. His head hurt so much.

Crowley didn’t speak for a few moments, then said in a cheerful voice: “Perhaps I can direct you to the nearest hospital?”

A blink of an eye later, Dean was kneeling on the floor of a wet parking lot beside a huge concrete building. The shock sent him toppling sideways, almost landing on Castiel; he threw out a hand and grazed it on the asphalt as he braced himself.

“There,” said Crowley, as though nothing had happened. “I’ll alert some pretty blonde nurses to come and get you. Although from the sound of things, your days of leering over the ladies are over.”

He disappeared. Dean stared at the blank space where he’d been standing, then around the lot, which was well-lit in the darkness and nearly deserted. Then he looked down at Castiel, who was lying still beside him, his eyes closed and his face deathly pale. 

“Cas?” he said, hearing his voice shake. “Are you– how are you feeling? What did she do to you?”

There was no reply. Dean placed a hand on his uninjured shoulder, then had a moment of déjà vu when he remembered how Castiel had hurt the same shoulder falling off a cliff – what was it with him and shoulders? That time, however, he’d healed in less than a day. Now? He wouldn’t. That demon hadn’t just stolen Sam. She’d stolen the very essence of what made Castiel an angel. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and felt Castiel shudder under his palm.

“They’re on their way,” said Crowley from behind him. “So, that’s me done. I’ll swing by later with a full explanation when you’re feeling better. I’ll even bring some grapes and a few magazines. I suppose I owe you that much.”

“My car!” Dean hissed.

“What?”

“My car! I can’t leave it there!”

Crowley snorted. “Your brains are bleeding out of your ears and you’re worried you left that heap of junk behind?”

“It’s a... crime scene,” Dean stammered, mildly surprising himself that he’d managed to figure that out, given the state of his head right now. “I can’t leave it there. It’ll get... taken away. It’s... my _car_.”

Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes. “Okay, okay. Give me the keys.”

He held out a hand.

Dean gazed at it. Or to be exact, _them_. His vision was playing tricks on him; he was suddenly seeing two of everything. “I can’t... you’re not... You’re not driving her, Crowley.”

“So you don’t want me to leave the car there, but you don’t want me to drive it here. Wow, you really do have a concussion.”

Dean blinked at the hands in front of him for a few more seconds, trying to think. In the end, the decision was made for him. Crowley leaned down, reached into Dean’s pocket and pulled out the keys. Dean watched him move but seemed completely unable to get his body to react. 

“There won’t be a mark on her, I promise,” Crowley said.

Dean glared up at him. “I will rip you to shreds if you hurt her,” he growled. “I’ll make sure that–”

But he didn’t finish his threat. The last thing he saw before he finally, inevitably passed out was Crowley grinning at him, jangling the keys in his hand like the cat who’d got the cream. 

 

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay with this chapter: I can only write over weekends at the moment, which is annoying. But I'm spending my weekdays plotting... *evil cackle*

* * *

 

The first time Dean woke up, he was in a bed and someone was leaning over him to take his blood pressure; the tightness of the cuff on his arm was what had roused him. Dean cast his eyes around the hospital room, wondering why it was so blurry, and when the person asked how he was feeling he managed to mutter _peachy_ before passing out again.

The next time he woke up, he was in some kind of metal tube. There was a banging and crashing sound coming from all around him, although the noise was muffled and he realized he was wearing some kind of ear protection. It took him a few moments to figure out that he was inside an MRI scanner, but he was too tired to care, and so he closed his eyes and slept again.

It was daylight the next time he opened his eyes, although the blinds were down in his room. The bed he was lying in was unbelievably comfy. His head ached, but only distantly, and he felt relaxed – if still a little woozy. He lay for a while, trying to remember why he was in a hospital. A hunt gone wrong? Where was Sam? He recalled being in a scanner, so that, added to the headache, led him to assume that he had a concussion. Well, it wasn’t his first, that was for sure.

He really needed some water, though. He was reluctant to move, enjoying the drowsiness and the unfamiliar sensation of not worrying about anything – that blissful period between waking up and remembering just how crappy his life usually was. But eventually the thirst grew too strong, so he lifted his head from the pillow to see if he could spot any water.

“Dean?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin. 

“Cas?” he croaked. 

“Hello,” said Castiel, and Dean rolled his head on the pillow to look at him. And then it all came back in a rush: what had happened in that church, how Sam had nearly butchered them, how Crowley had come to the rescue... how Castiel’s grace had been stolen. It was still gone, too, which was blatantly obvious just by looking at him. Castiel was sitting in a wheelchair, his right arm held flat on his chest by a complicated-looking series of straps and a sling. He was wearing a blue hospital gown that highlighted how pale he looked, with bruises covering one side of his face from where he’d hit the pews in the church. He was also squinting, his eyes red and sore-looking, and it was that more than anything that made Dean’s heart lurch. Had he been crying?

“You okay?” he asked.

“Not really,” Castiel replied, but he managed a weary grin. “And I should ask the same of you. How is your head?”

“Still holding in my brains,” Dean said, raising a hand to his forehead. His fingers met stitches.

“The doctors were worried you had cracked your skull, but it seems their fears were unwarranted,” Castiel explained, his voice more gravelly than usual. “You have been asleep for the entire night and most of the day. Just an hour ago they were wondering if they should wake you up. I told them to give you another hour, and it seems I was right.” His gaze dropped. “It feels strange not being able to simply heal you. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not something you should be apologizing for, Cas. Hey, is there any water?” Suddenly that seemed incredibly important. Dean remembered being locked in the dungeon, feeling his tongue turn to cardboard from thirst. The horror of that experience hadn’t quite left him yet, and any amount of thirst was enough to trigger anxiety. He lay still until Castiel nudged his hand with a bottle, and then he raised it to his lips and gulped down water gratefully.

Once he’d drunk his fill, he flicked his gaze across to Castiel. “How’s your shoulder?” he asked.

“Apparently I have a broken scapula.” Castiel looked down at the strappings holding his arm in place. “I have been given large quantities of drugs, but I can still feel the pain when I breathe. It is very unpleasant.”

Dean studied him, alarmed at how small and hurt he looked. “What’s with the eyes?” he said, because he couldn’t understand why they looked so sore.

Castiel placed his free hand over his left eye, rubbing it gently. “They were burned in the light Crowley used to obliterate the Daeva. Something happened with my retinas – I don’t really understand it. But the doctor says my vision will return to normal in another day or two.” He nodded at at the window. “It’s why I drew the blind.”

Dean stared at him silently, then reached out a hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Castiel took it. 

“The state of us, huh?” 

“We were lucky to survive,” Castiel pointed out, meeting his gaze. 

Dean remembered Sam emptying grace from the cut on Castiel’s neck. He also remembered Sam lowering the silver angel blade to Castiel’s groin, and what he’d intended to do with it. He squeezed his hand, relieved that he was there and in one piece, if a little battered. 

“We’ll get your grace back,” he promised. “You won’t be human for long.”

“I will admit, it’s rather uncomfortable.” Castiel sighed. “I had forgotten how often humans need to urinate. I need to go again and it has only been four hours.”

The irritation in his voice actually made Dean grin. “Yeah, but you can enjoy food now,” he said. “In fact, you can enjoy all the... best stuff without your... your grace.” He swallowed, suddenly nervous. His brain had instantly gone with “sex”. _Idiot._

Castiel didn’t respond. Awkwardly, given that he was one-handed, he managed to roll his wheelchair over to the door of what Dean guessed was the bathroom, using the side of the bed for leverage. Then he sat for a few moments, his expression thoroughly pissed, as Dean watched in puzzlement.

“You okay?” he asked, then realized that Castiel was steeling himself to stand up. “I’d give you a hand, but...”

“I’m fine,” Castiel said quickly, but when he heaved himself one-handed out of the wheelchair, it was plain to see that he wasn’t. He gasped and bent over slightly, throwing a hand out to support himself on the doorframe, and then stood panting through what looked to be a lot of pain.

Dean flashed back to hearing him screaming in the church, and once again he tried to imagine what Sam had done to him during that mysterious assault he hadn’t been able to see. Concerned, he sat upright, forgetting everything except that Castiel was in pain. “Hey, come on. What happened back there? Where are you hurt?” 

“It is _ridiculous,_ ” Castiel snapped, and even in the dim light Dean could see his knuckles whitening on the door frame.

“Cas, come on. You can tell me.” Dean was really starting to worry. The more Castiel hesitated, the more convinced he became that whatever that demon had done, it must have involved his genitalia. Why else would he be so reluctant to discuss it? She _had_ been obsessed with their sex life, after all – and not long after she’d done whatever this was, she’d almost cut Castiel’s dick off.

But he was mistaken. Throwing Dean a despairing glance, Castiel slowly lowered his hand from the door frame, straightened as much as he seemed able to do, and then lifted his hospital gown.

Castiel wasn’t wearing underwear, but Dean barely even noticed. He was too busy staring at two nasty, deep-black, perfectly symmetrical bruises on either side of the V-lines of his pelvis. 

What the hell?

“She used her thumbs,” Castiel explained, gauging Dean’s confused expression. “Sam’s thumbs, I mean. But it was her strength – a demon’s strength. She just... pushed, hard. It was like something was drilling into me. It was so... relentless, I thought the bone would snap in two, and it hurt like–” He stopped, swallowing. “I’ve had an x-ray and apparently there are microfractures to my pelvis, but the doctors say they’ll heal if I rest.”

Dean tore his eyes away from the bruises and met his gaze. “Fuck, Cas. She wasn’t kidding when she said she liked to hurt people in strange ways.”

“It could have been a lot worse,” Castiel said, dropping his gown again. “I’m just angry at how... stupid it is, as an injury. I couldn’t even think of how to explain it when they examined me last night.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I couldn’t remember. Because I had a knife-wound they already had a lot of questions. Amnesia seemed to be a good option.” He sighed. “I think they suspected we’d had a fight and you were the one to stab me, but after a while they realized I was too worried about you for us to be enemies.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, struck by a thought. “Cas, you shouldn’t be in here with me, should you? You should be in your own bed, lying down.”

“Of course,” Castiel said dismissively, and started to shuffle painfully into the bathroom. “But I don’t think they’ve noticed yet.”

He closed the door.

Dean stared after him, trying to collect his thoughts. His head was starting to pound again, so he lay back and took a deep breath, sifting through everything that had happened in the last two days. 

_Sam had been there._ Just for a few seconds, but long enough. He’d wrestled back control of his own body, which meant that there was hope: he was still inside there, locked up, and if they could only get that damn demon woman out of him he might be okay. So how could they do that? It seemed their only hope was–

“Feeling better, twinkletoes?”

...Crowley.

“Where’s my car?” Dean snapped up at him.

Crowley threw the keys on the table beside the bed and put his hands in his coat pockets, as smug and unruffled as he always was. “Drove like a nightmare. Lumpy seat. Every inch of it stank of you and your brother. I’ve had better journeys. I left it parked outside a Subway five minutes away.”

Dean eyed him suspiciously, but Crowley’s expression seemed to be relatively open and honest – for once – and so eventually he relaxed. “Thanks,” he said, grudgingly.

“I suppose you’re dying to know what’s going on.”

Dean felt exposed lying down, and so he reluctantly pulled himself upright again. “Yeah, you got that right.”

The bathroom door opened. Castiel glared at Crowley, his belligerence somewhat diminished by the fact he was dressed in a hospital gown, wearing a sling and had to hold himself still on the doorframe. 

Crowley glanced over at him and grinned. “You look like you’re having fun being human. Need a hand?”

“Not from you,” Castiel muttered, easing himself painfully into his wheelchair. 

“I’d like to remind you that just a few hours ago I saved you from losing a beloved piece of your anatomy,” Crowley pointed out. “Some gratitude might be nice. Or were you quite happy with the thought of never using your little winky again?”

“You didn’t turn up to save us,” Castiel grunted. “You were there to recapture your demon. It’s your fault this happened. Tell us what you know.”

Crowley sighed and sat down on the bed beside Dean’s. He arranged his coat around him primly and then stared at the ceiling. “Where to start... where to start... Let’s see...”

“Stop being such a drama queen,” Dean snapped.

“What happens to murderers when they die?” Crowley asked, apropos of nothing.

Dean frowned. “Is this a trick question? They go to Hell. Or at least, they do until you _let them escape._ ”

Crowley eyed him contemplatively. “Touché. But it’s a serious question: there are many kinds of murderers. For example, if you kill someone in self-defense, do you deserve to go to Hell? Do soldiers suffer that fate for killing their enemies, even if they’re trying to protect their fellow citizens? Do doctors deserve eternal hellfire for aborting little babies? What about people who are mentally ill – do they deserve to burn in Hell for the rest of eternity for committing a murder during a psychotic break that they don’t even remember? It happens all the time, that last one. There are people who commit all sorts of nasty, depraved things simply because there’s a chemical imbalance in their brains – something they can’t control, something they may not even be aware of. How fair is it that they come to live with me, suffering until the end of time when they’d be perfectly decent, well-behaving citizens if only their brains weren’t defective like that?”

Dean kept his mouth closed. Those were all perfectly valid questions. 

“God decides,” Castiel said, awkwardly wheeling himself closer to Dean’s bed. “That’s how Heaven and Hell work. It’s not for us to decide. It’s for Him.”

“Yes, and we can only hope your dear Daddy is always right,” Crowley said. “I’m not sure, though. There are lots of murderers in Heaven. And there are good people in Hell. Many, many good people. It’s a very complicated business.”

“So what are you trying to say here?” Dean asked. “That the demon inside Sam... Elizabeth... she was sent to Hell but she was actually innocent?”

“Fuck, no,” said Crowley, which made Dean raise his eyebrows, because in his experience Crowley rarely swore. Which, for the King of Hell, was pretty weird. 

“Elizabeth Rathborne was pure evil in her lifetime and pure evil ever since,” Crowley continued. “That’s my point: for all the shades of gray in the world, for all the human beings who may or may not truly deserve their eternal fates, there are very, _very_ few for whom damnation is so thoroughly deserved. And she’s one of them. I can’t even begin to tell you how much she belongs in Hell.”

“Yeah, we already gathered she was a bit of a bad apple, Crowley, from all the dead people she skinned and hung from ceilings,” Dean said bitterly.

“But isn’t it interesting that she did it because she wanted to?” Crowley asked, sounding truly intrigued. “In her life, she was never mentally ill. Everything she did, she did because she just bloody enjoyed it. She killed a lot of people before they executed her – dozens of the buggers. It was quite unusual for a woman in the eighteenth century to be so thoroughly depraved.”

Something sparked in Dean’s head. “Wait... she wasn’t that Elizabeth chick who bathed in the blood of virgins, was she?”

Crowley gave him a withering look. “That was Elizabeth Bathory, you nitwit, and she died in 1614. Also, she’s in Heaven.”

Dean blinked, stunned. “She swam around in the blood of prudes and went to _Heaven_?”

“Pah.” Crowley waved a hand dismissively. “All rubbish. She was a woman in power and consequently all the men around her wanted her gone. Everything was made up or exaggerated. History is written by men, after all.”

“Oh.” Dean felt disappointed. He’d watched a documentary on Countess Bathory as a kid and thought she sounded pretty cool, in a murdery kind of way, and apparently she’d inspired Bram Stoker to write _Dracula_. Total rock chick.

“Plus she was mentally ill, too,” Crowley continued, shrugging. “Incest doesn’t tend to produce healthy children, and her parents were so inbred they were practically Siamese twins.”

“Conjoined twins,” Dean said automatically, and then winced. Sam had corrected him once on that subject. 

Fuck, he missed him.

“Anyway,” Crowley continued, completely ignoring him, “what I’m saying is that dear Lizzie is a nasty piece of work through-and-through. Once she popped down the chute to Hell she was a demon in no time – I barely even had to torture her and _boom_ : one of us. But she had... issues.”

“Issues?” asked Castiel, narrowing his eyes. Although they were pretty narrow anyway, considering how sore they looked. 

“Let’s just say Lizzie had a bit of a complex. She was brought up Catholic, you see, and that whole deal with Communion wafers and pretending they’re the body of you-know-who... well, she took it rather literally. When she was alive, she became convinced that by eating other humans, she could become the Daughter of God.”

“And you say she _wasn’t_ crazy?” Dean said flatly. 

“I know, it’s remarkable, isn’t it? She did all that but she did it as rationally as Einstein invented that whole ‘E equals whatever’ business. What a woman.”

He paused for a moment, a faraway look in his eyes. With a thrill of recognition, Dean realized what that look meant. 

“Holy shit,” he gasped. “You’re in love with her!”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “How hard _did_ you hit that head of yours, Squirrel?”

 _Oh._ Maybe not.

“You certainly sound as though you admire her,” Castiel said, his voice reasonable. 

“I do,” Crowley nodded, shooting Dean a look of disdain. “But in love with her? Get a grip. She’s simply one of my favorites, is all. So bad she’s almost good. Always surprising me, bless her black little heart. After she became a demon, the first thing she did to surprise me was to eat several of her colleagues... right down to the fingernails. I have to admit, I never saw that coming – and neither did they. She got through fifteen of them before I finally cottoned on. And so, after that, I had to keep her in a section of Hell reserved for my most troublesome inmates – high security, out of the way.” 

He sighed, suddenly looking sheepish. “And then everything went a bit tits-up a few months ago. I was away, taking care of some business–” He shot Castiel an odd look when he said that, which made Dean frown, but then he continued as though nothing had happened. “When I got back, I discovered that her entire section of Hell had been destroyed. The little vixen had been plotting an escape for ages after using her _feminine wiles_ on several of her guards. With their help she released all the other inmates as a distraction, then ate the guards and scarpered. All I found were their teeth. I think she would’ve eaten them, too, if they’d been a bit cleaner.”

Dean felt his stomach flip. This creature was inside his brother? 

“The next thing I knew, she’d disappeared. Absolutely, one-hundred per cent gone. I couldn’t track her at all. Very strange. I only figured out who she’d slithered into when I finally listened to your messages a few days ago. I followed you to the church and there she was.”

Dean sat for a moment, digesting all this information. “So how do we get her out of Sam?” he asked eventually, because that was, after all, the most important question.

Crowley rubbed the stubble on his chin. “She’s powerful – very powerful. But I know a spell or two that should rip her out of her host. All we need to do is find her again.”

“But what would those spells do to _Sam_?”

“Nothing. But I can’t vouch for what she’ll do on her way out of him. Moose omelette, I reckon.”

Dean looked down at his hands, suddenly feeling as though everything was too big, too out of control. Every way they turned, there was another brick wall. It made him want to scream.

“What could be hiding her from you?” Castiel asked, looking thoughtful. “We tried many spells and none of them worked. She seems to be shielded, somehow.”

“Yeah, I got bupkiss too.” Crowley stood, putting his hands in his coat pockets. “I don’t understand it.”

“What does she want with Castiel’s grace?” Dean asked. “She tried to drink it but it didn’t go well.”

“My guess is that she thinks lover-boy here is so corrupted that a demon can drink his heavenly powers and actually absorb them.” Crowley waggled his eyebrows at Castiel. “She may have a point. You’re definitely not as squeaky clean as you were a few years ago, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Yes,” snapped Castiel, his eyes suddenly ice-cold. “I do.”

“So, what, she thinks by scarfing down Castiel’s grace, she’s gonna develop angel powers?” Dean said, baffled.

“Possibly. Though I think it’s more likely that she thinks mixing grace with her demonic powers will make her some kind of godlike being. As I said, she’s obsessed with becoming the Second Coming. As if the universe hasn’t got enough pretenders to that particular job vacancy.”

“Will it work?” Castiel asked. “Will swallowing my grace make her powerful?”

Crowley fell silent, considering the question. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “The thing is, every time she eats one of my demons, she gets a little stronger. Remember how you went on that soul-binge a while back, Castiel? Every soul you swallowed, you gained more power. I suspect she’s going to eat a few more demons before she’s done, and then she’ll try to guzzle your grace again.”

Castiel lowered his eyes at the mention of his ill-advised power trip that had resulted in Leviathans being released into the world. Dean watched him for a few seconds, uncomfortable, then turned back to Crowley.

“Look, it doesn’t matter. We just need to stop her and we need to get her out of Sam before she kills him. Come up with something, Crowley. We’ll figure out how to find her. Maybe we can lure her out. But we need something ready for her when she arrives.”

Crowley shrugged. “I suppose I can look into it. No guarantees, though.”

“Just get it done.” 

“You do realize your dear brother is probably dead already?”

Dean smiled grimly. “He managed to overpower her just before you turned up. He’s hanging on in there.”

The door to the room opened. A middle-aged woman with bright pink hair stood silhouetted in the light from the corridor, which shone so brightly that Castiel hissed and turned away. She glared at them with such ferocity that Dean suddenly felt terribly guilty, as though she’d found them all robbing a bank; then the woman stepped inside the room. She was wearing a nurse’s uniform and had an air about her that suggested she didn’t take any shit in _her_ hospital. 

“What are you doin’ in here?” she snapped at Crowley in a lilting Southern accent. “Visitin’ hours ain’t until later this afternoon. Agent Collins needs rest, not you yakking in his ear like you’re givin’ a TED talk.”

“I was just–” Crowley began, as Dean suddenly remembered he was supposed to be Agent Phil Collins. 

The nurse was relentless. “You need to _leave,_ ” she demanded, pointing at the door. “Now. I won’t tell you again, sir. This man has a serious concussion and he needs _sleep_ and silence.”

“But we were–”

“ _Out._ ” The nurse jabbed her finger at the door. 

Crowley shot Dean a terrified look and left the room. 

Dean couldn’t stop himself: he giggled. He’d never seen anybody scare Crowley like that. But his humor was short-lived – the nurse had turned her attentions to Castiel. 

“What the hell are you doin’ outta bed, Agent Hackett?” she snapped, as Castiel gazed up at her in bleary-eyed shock. 

“I’m... sorry?” Castiel said, sounding confused, as the nurse grabbed his wheelchair by the handles and swept him round to the door. 

“You came in here half-dead and you think you can go have a party in your friend’s room,” the nurse scolded him. “And he’s had his head rattled like a pea in a whistle. He don’t need your company, he needs rest, and so do you. Come on, let’s get you back to your room and maybe you can lie down and sleep some sense back into that head of yours.”

She opened the door and maneuvered Castiel’s chair through it. Dean caught a glimpse of Castiel’s pleading expression before he was spun around, and then the nurse turned to him. “Now you get some sleep, you hear me? The doctor will be round in an hour to see how you’re gettin’ on, and maybe we can see about some food, but you need peace and quiet or you’ll be seeing pink elephants until the end of time. Get some sleep. I mean it!”

“Er, okay,” Dean stammered, and then the door swung shut and she was gone.

The room suddenly seemed too quiet and too empty. Rubbing his eyes, Dean lay back down and stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts racing. 

So the demon inside Sam was so evil that even Crowley was in awe of her.

For the first time, Dean started to seriously doubt that he was ever going to get his brother back again.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh, life has been so busy the past few weeks; I'm so sorry for the delay in updating. I'm posting this wee little half-chapter just to show I haven't given up on this fic (rest assured, I would NEVER, EVER abandon a story!). I have a month of three-day weekends coming up, so chapters should start speeding up again soon. Sorry for the delay, guys! In the meantime, here's this.

* * *

The next morning, despite some broken sleep, Dean felt considerably better. After a word with his doctor he was given the all-clear to leave the hospital, with some limitations – someone had to keep an eye on him, and he wasn’t allowed to drive. Dean was an old hand at concussions and knew the drill, although he knew he’d be driving today regardless: it wasn’t as though Castiel could drive one-handed.

The thought of staying a little longer, allowing them both time to recover, didn’t even occur to him. Sam was still out there with that demon nightmare inside him. He needed to find him before it was too late. The urge was a deep, persistent thrum inside him, like a second heartbeat. 

After swallowing a final handful of painkillers for his headache, Dean found Castiel’s room and walked in to find him fast asleep amidst a muddle of thin blue cotton sheets – it looked as though though he’d kicked them off him during the night while tossing and turning, perhaps unable to get comfortable because of his sling. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his skin was flushed and there were pillow creases imprinted on one cheek underneath his bruises. 

He looked young and very, very human. Dean couldn’t help but sigh at the sight. It seemed Castiel was always spiralling up and down between ‘powerful’ and ‘vulnerable’, and it had happened so much over the past few months alone that Dean was getting whiplash. He sat down, deciding to give Castiel a little longer before waking him up: he looked as though he really need more sleep. 

As he sat, he pondered. 

He racked his brain to think of ways to find Sam... and Elizabeth. Hunting her down seemed an impossibility: that always seemed to involve waiting for someone to die, and she’d be long-gone by the time they arrived there – or it would be some kind of trap. It was more feasible to accept that she’d find them when it suited her, which meant being somewhere obvious. It had to be the bunker. It was an environment they could control, too.

But they couldn’t just sit there for what could be months waiting for her to show up. They needed to lure her in when they were prepared to exorcise her – and with Crowley’s help. But how the hell could they contact her? She didn’t have a phone, after all.

And then, with a thrill, it hit him. _They could send her an email._

She’d emailed him once from Sam’s account; what was to stop her checking it again? If Dean invited her to the bunker for a face-to-face confrontation, maybe she’d come. She was arrogant enough.

Of course, she’d know it was a trap. He’d have to offer her something she wanted. Perhaps... perhaps he could frame it as some kind of bargain? Perhaps he could tell her that if she handed over Sam’s body...

 _Argh._ What? 

Dean thought hard, trying to ignore his headache. He was on a roll, he could feel it. Come _on_ , what would a demon escaped from Hell want? How could he bribe her? 

Maybe... maybe he could offer her a way to take down Crowley for good? He could tell her that Crowley wanted her dead – but if that happened, Crowley would kill Sam, too. Dean couldn’t live with that, so he was double-crossing the King of Hell to save his brother. Elizabeth would probably scan Sam’s mind to see if Dean would do something like that, and Sam would confirm it, knowing how much Dean didn’t want to lose him. 

Hmm. It could work. It could get her to the bunker, where they’d be waiting. However, all this hinged on whether Crowley would double-cross _them_ or not. He did want Elizabeth, yes; would he be willing to kill Sam to get her after all? Or would he do what he’d promised: pull her out of him unharmed? 

But what if she killed Sam before any of them could react?

In the end, Sam’s life depended on the word of two demons. 

Dean put his head in his hands. So many choices, so much worry. All he wanted was his brother back. Would this ever end? It felt like years since the day Sam had walked out of the bunker to buy some beer. Dean felt the worry and pain weighing on him, almost a physical presence, and he rubbed his temples to stop the pounding in his head.

Castiel made a small noise. 

Dean looked up. It took him a moment or two to realize that Castiel was dreaming: his eyes were moving under his eyelids and his fingers were twitching; his face, which had been slack when Dean had entered the room, was now creased into a frown. 

He’d known Castiel for a long, long time now, and it was only rarely that he ever saw him sleep, let alone dream. 

Dean doubted he was dreaming about anything good. 

What would happen if his grace really had gone? Say they got Sam back – and fuck, Dean prayed that would happen – but Castiel was doomed to live his life as a human. What would this mean for _them?_ Would Castiel rediscover those carnal feelings again? Would he be more willing to rekindle their relationship? Dean didn’t really understand how angels’ minds worked, but he knew that for a human to live a life without sex was a different proposition entirely. 

For a moment, a brief, joyful moment, Dean imagined them pairing up. He pictured them growing old together. And then he closed his eyes, knowing that he was being an idiot. 

_As if._

When he finally opened his eyes again, Castiel had woken from his dream and was staring across at him. 

“Hey,” Dean said, feeling rather embarrassed about his imaginings, although obviously Castiel couldn’t read his mind any more.

“How are you feeling?” Castiel asked, and Dean rolled his eyes, because of _course_ Castiel’s first thoughts were for Dean rather than himself. 

“Headache’s gone, nausea’s gone, I’m doin’ great,” he declared, not entirely truthfully, and went and sat in the wheelchair by the side of the bed, playing with the wheels. “How’s the shoulder?”

Castiel considered that for a moment before announcing: “I require more drugs.”

“I’ll see about getting you some,” Dean offered, and rose to his feet, almost tripping on the wheelchair’s footrests as he did so.

“Are we staying?” Castiel asked, narrowing his eyes. 

Dean hesitated, suddenly uncertain about his plans to get out of there today. “Do you want to? I mean, no offence, but you look like a sack of mangled poop at the moment, Cas. You need to rest up.”

“I can rest up in the car,” Castiel declared, and with what looked like a significant amount of effort, he heaved himself into a sitting position. The movement clearly hurt him: he grimaced and closed his eyes, then announced: “I _definitely_ require drugs.”

“Okay, I’ll get you some. Do you need a hand getting in the chair first?”

Castiel seemed to consider that for a moment, holding his stomach with his one free hand, and then shook his head. “No, I can manage.” But he looked so thoroughly annoyed that Dean couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was going on.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No,” said Castiel, his voice lowering. “I need to urinate _again_. How many times do I have to go through this? It is ridiculous.”

Despite everything, Dean suddenly found himself grinning. There was something about Castiel being so angry about having to _pee_ that was hilarious. For a moment, a brief, welcome moment, he felt a rush of hope. 

He still had Cas. They were a team. No matter how banged-up he was, Castiel still had Dean’s back. Sam was gone – for now – but Dean still had someone he could count on.

“Here,” he said, handing Castiel the half-empty water jug from beside the bed. “Use this.”

He was half-joking, but Castiel took him at his word. 

Dean hastily excused himself, then went to find a doctor and some drugs.

 

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

Their return to the bunker was hardly a triumphant one. Dean went down the staircase first and then hovered at the bottom, looking up anxiously as Castiel descended the steps painfully slowly, his good hand clutching the rail tightly, wincing with every movement. He didn’t say a word about his injuries, though. In fact, he’d barely said a thing since leaving the hospital, which had made the car journey a long, depressing one. 

Dean was hardly feeling stellar himself: his head was pounding again. He needed to sleep, but first he had something to investigate – and an email to write. 

“You should get an elevator,” Castiel told him wearily as he finally made it to the bottom of the staircase.  
   
“I’ll bring it up with the landlord,” Dean said, taking Castiel’s arm. “Okay, so do you need food? Or do you wanna go straight to bed?”  
   
Castiel’s face got that _searching_ look Dean was starting to recognize meant: _What is my frail human body telling me now?_ “Food would be good,” he said, after a moment. “But I also need to lie down. Uh... food... in bed?”  
   
Dean shrugged. “That can be arranged. Come on.”  
   
The walk to Castiel’s bedroom seemed to take forever, and by the time they arrived Castiel was sweating, his skin ashen. Dean helped lower him to the mattress and fussed over him, still a little stunned at how frail he seemed, although Castiel remained silent, his jaw clenched. Then, when Dean was confident his patient was as comfortable as he could be – given that he was sporting a stab wound, a broken shoulder and a lower body a demon had tried to flatten like a pancake – he stepped back.  
   
“I’ll be back in a bit,” he said. “I just need to check up on something, then I’ll get you some food.”  
   
“The Devil’s Trap in the dungeon,” Castiel said. It was a statement, not a question.  
   
Dean blinked. “What... How did you know?”  
   
“Because it’s bugging me, too,” Castiel replied, settling his head back against the pillow. “Sam – Elizabeth – shouldn’t have been able to get out of that Devil’s Trap when she put you in the chair, but she did. Crowley said she isn’t strong enough to break one, and I assume you would’ve noticed if the trap was damaged. So something else must have happened to it.”  
   
Dean nodded, slowly. “Yeah, something’s hinky there. I need to go and look.”  
   
“Everything about this is _hinky_ ,” Castiel observed. He met Dean’s gaze. His eyes were bloodshot but still a dazzling blue, and Dean suddenly found he had to swallow, his stomach doing a strange leapfrog inside him as he inexplicably remembered those piercing eyes glowing with grace-light whenever Castiel came. 

_Wow,_ he thought, rattled. _Inappropriate timing or what?_  
   
“You have a plan, don’t you?” Castiel continued, oblivious. “To bring her here?”  
   
Dean swallowed, collecting his thoughts. “Yeah, I’m gonna send her an email. Hoping she RSVPs.”  
   
“I can help contain her,” Castiel said, apparently thinking that Dean was joking. “I know some runes of confinement that should come in useful. And with Crowley’s help... Perhaps we can get Sam back. But there’s no guarantee she’ll release him unharmed.”  
   
Dean sighed. “That’s our lives in a nutshell, Cas. No guarantees.”  
   
They stared at each other for a few moments, then Dean turned away. “I won’t be long.”  
   
   
* * *  
   
   
It was tough walking into the dungeon again. The last time Dean had been in this room, he’d genuinely thought he was going to die: he found himself licking his lips subconsciously, remembering how terrible it had been to be so thirsty, and yet, weirdly, how utterly boring it had been to just sit there and wait for dehydration to take him away. He stared at the chair and shuddered, a cold, prickling feeling running down his spine, before frowning and concentrating on what he was there for.  
   
The Devil’s Trap looked perfect.  
   
Dean got down on his hands and knees to examine every inch, but nothing seemed amiss: all the lines and symbols were present and correct. There wasn’t as much as a hair’s width of a gap scraped through the paint. He studied the floor over and over again, baffled, and then checked it all again for good measure.  
   
“What the fuck?” he murmured, completely thrown. How the hell had she danced in and out of this trap as though it wasn’t there? She _was_ a demon, wasn’t she? It wasn’t possible – she wasn’t that powerful!  
   
That left only one solution: maybe it was something he couldn’t see.  
   
He headed to the garage. After rummaging through some of the equipment in the trunk of the Impala, he went back to the dungeon and turned out the lights.  
   
And he found it.  
   
   
* * *  
   
   
There was a surprise waiting for him when he returned to Castiel’s room. A small, black-and-white mound was curled next to him on the bed, purring away.  
   
“Hey, Betsy,” Dean said, pleased to see her. It wasn’t as though she was his pet or anything – hell, she’d only just started showing up – but somehow this cat was probably the most normal thing in his life right now.   
   
Castiel was stroking her with his good hand, a soft smile on his face. “She turned up a few minutes ago,” he said. “She says she missed us.”  
   
“How did she know we were back? Was she just hanging out here the whole time?”  
   
“She saw the car arrive.”  
   
Dean reached out a hand and Betsy sniffed it inquisitively. “Our own little watch-kitty, huh?”  
   
Betsy mewed and rolled over. Dean tickled the soft fur on her stomach, bewitched, then remembered why he needed to speak to Castiel.  
   
“I found what was hinky,” he said, and held out a piece of paper. “I did some _CSI_ shit on the trap and and discovered this mark – it only showed up in ultraviolet light. I tried to take a photo but my phone wouldn’t register it, so I’ve drawn it for you. Ring any bells?”  
   
Castiel stared at the odd symbol on the paper. As Dean watched him, his face slowly drained of color.  
   
“What?” Dean asked, realizing he wasn’t going to like this.  
   
“This is an Enochian symbol,” Castiel said.  
   
Dean frowned. “So Elizabeth copied an angel spell to neutralize the trap? Clever girl.”  
   
“No, it’s not that simple,” Castiel continued, glancing up at him with a worried expression. “A demon could never draw this symbol – it’s anathema to them.”  
   
“It’s… anna-what?”  
   
“She would have burst into flames,” Castiel said, stroking the paper. “There’s just no way she could have… and it’s an ancient symbol, very powerful. Only a few angels know it. She shouldn’t have known about it. I’d almost forgotten it existed.”  
   
“So how did she get her mitts on it? Or draw it on the trap?”  
   
Castiel’s eyes unfocused. He swallowed, dropping the paper.  
   
“An angel drew this, Dean. She’s working with an angel.”  
   
Dean thought about it, then sat down on the bed. “Crap.”  
   
Between them, Betsy purred.

 

* * *  
   
   
_Hey skank,_  
   
So we need to talk. 

_You’ve got my brother and you can read his mind, so you already know I’m not gonna let that stand. I need him back, and I need him back soon. But you’re not going to give him to me, obviously, unless I have something to for you in return._  
   
So I’m offering you a deal: I can give you Crowley.  
   
He wants you dead and, frankly, I’m on the same page as him. But I trust him about as far as I could throw a house, so I don’t believe he’ll save Sam when he takes you in. He doesn’t care if Sam lives or dies, as long as he gets his mitts on you.  
   
So instead, I’m bargaining with you. A demon deal, binding, a written contract in this email. You give me back my brother – get out of his body and deliver him to me alive and unharmed in every way – and I’ll double-cross Crowley for you. You can get him off your tail, forever. All I want is Sam back. Oh, and Castiel’s grace, too – that’s the second part of my deal.  
   
Come to the bunker at midnight tonight. There’ll be a trap waiting for you. Walk into it. And then, when Crowley thinks you’re done, I’ll give you an angel blade. Take him out. You’ll have the element of surprise and then you’ll be free.  
   
But I want Sam and the grace back first, or we have no deal.  
   
And if you hurt my brother… he can probably picture what I’ll do to you, so why not ask him? 

_See you later._  
   
   
* * *  
   
   
“It explains a lot,” Castiel was saying, as Dean put the finishing touches on the huge Devil’s Trap he’d just painted on the floor of the library.  
   
“What does?” he puffed, wiping his forehead. This was hot work.  
   
“Well, for instance, why I couldn’t hear you praying when you were in the dungeon. The symbol prevented your prayers from leaving the trap.”

“A prayer-muffler, huh? That’s a new one.”

“An angel’s involvement also explains how we weren’t able to find Sam, even when we used magic. He was being shielded.”  
   
Dean shot him a look. “Shielded how?”  
   
Castiel fiddled with the strap on his shoulder, wincing as he moved his arm. “Remember when I – _uh_ – carved sigils of concealment onto your ribs? The angel must have done that to Sam. He has been hidden from all sight – even from a witch as powerful as Rowena. It was the one explanation I didn’t consider because it was inconceivable that an angel could have possessed Sam’s body.”  
   
Dean thought about the symbols on his ribs from all those years ago. Castiel had told him they faded over time, so they weren’t there any more. Plenty of room for new ones. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he muttered.  
   
“And it also explains how Elizabeth was able to enter Sam in the first place. The angel broke his warding tattoo for her.”  
   
That had been niggling at Dean, but he hadn’t given it much thought, given that it was too late to do anything about it. “So I guess this means the angel was here, in the bunker,” he said. “I just didn’t see it when Sam was tying me to that chair.”  
   
“Perhaps it wanted something from in here,” Castiel observed, looking around the room curiously. “Are you sure nothing was taken?”

“Other than your old collar, nothing that I could see. But I can’t say I know everything the Men of Letters stored away, even after all these years livin’ here. What would an angel want, anyway? Enough to make them team up with a demon?”

“I have no idea.” Castiel looked off into the distance, thinking. “I wonder if the angel planted the thought in Elizabeth’s head that she could drink my grace and gain new powers? That’s such an odd thing for a demon to consider.”

“Maybe the angel tricked Elizabeth and just wanted your grace for itself?”

“That could be likely, too.”  
   
Dean thought about the demon who was due to arrive in a few hours. _Deal agreed. Laterz, darling._ “Do you think it’s still working with her? Will she be alone when she turns up?”  
   
“I have no idea.” Castiel sighed, shifting in his chair. “We need to let Crowley know. This plan could backfire if he isn’t fully prepared.”  
   
Dean stared down at the trap on the floor, pursing his lips. “I don’t know. I don’t want to spook him. If he thinks angels are involved, he might decide to let Elizabeth go free to save himself the hassle.”

“I think you underestimate how much I want my little Lizzie back,” said an unexpected voice.

Dean almost dropped the can of paint he was holding, while Castiel jumped so hard he made himself gasp in pain. Crowley stood smugly, studying them both, hands in his pockets, as though he’d been standing there for an hour already.

“How did you get in?” Dean snapped, slamming down the paint.

“Your wards aren’t working, chuckles. I assume that’s deliberate, given you’re expecting a house call this evening.”

Dean scowled. They hadn’t actually lowered the wards yet. How had Crowley managed to circumvent them? Was there something wrong with–

Something _hissed_ , low and loud. 

Crowley turned. Behind him, her body lowered flat onto the floor, ears flat and her eyes like dark pools, stood Betsy. She was glaring up at the demon with so much hatred that Dean was rather proud of her.

“Hello, kitty,” said Crowley, dismissively. “Eh, I’m more of a dog person myself.”

Betsy hissed again, then darted off into the depths of the bunker, her tail twice its usual size. Dean looked at Castiel, who met his gaze. He knew they were both thinking the same thing: Betsy had found a way into the bunker, and now their demon wards weren’t working. Something had clearly broken them, allowing both feline and demon into the building. So where was this breach?

Dean needed to have words with that cat.

“So my dear Elizabeth has found herself a celestial ally, has she?” Crowley observed, running a hand along the table. He rubbed his fingers together, checking for dust, then sat on the wood, flicking his coat up behind him. “How very clever of her. But this does rather complicate matters, doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Dean said firmly. “We get her here and we get her out of Sam, end of story.”

“Yes, and she thinks she’s going to get me in return, yadda yadda. I got your voicemail – all very Machiavellian. She’ll probably fall for it, too, with your brother urging her on inside her head. But who knows if she’ll bring her angel buddy with her?” He looked over at Castiel, shaking his head. “Look at the state of you, Castiel. You couldn’t stand up to that cat, let alone an angel.”

“She’ll come alone,” said Dean, trying to convince himself. “She wants you, Crowley. You’re the only one she’s scared of.”

“I probably am,” Crowley mused, scratching his half-grown beard. “And don’t worry, I’m going to be here when she turns up. But if she’s brought feathery help, I’m telling you now: I’m gone. I’ll come back when you’ve dealt with it.”

“You are _such_ a dick,” Dean muttered.

“Do you know why she would team up with an angel in the first place?” Castiel asked. He was staring at Crowley, unblinking. 

“Back-up, I suppose. More importantly, though – why would an angel team up with _her_?”

There was a short pause as all three of them considered this. Nobody could think of an answer.

“Do you think the angel helped her to escape from Hell?” asked Castiel. He was now studying Crowley so intently that it made Dean suspicious. 

Crowley seemed to notice too, narrowing his eyes at Castiel and taking a moment to think before replying. “Why would you say that?”

“Where were you when it happened?” 

“What is this, the McCarthy hearings? I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

Crowley fell silent, staring at Castiel thoughtfully. Dean looked from him to Castiel, trying to figure out what was going on. It felt as though he was one step behind this conversation. 

“Er... guys?” he said, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

“Don’t you find it strange that Crowley was silent for so many weeks, even when you left him all those urgent messages?” Castiel said to Dean, not taking his eyes off the demon. 

Dean hesitated. “Well, yeah. Now you come to mention it.”

“And then there was an epic jailbreak which he doesn’t seem to have under control, even now. Why would that be? He is the King of Hell, after all. He’s supposed to be _in charge._ But he couldn’t even answer his phone. Surely the great Crowley could take the time to call us when we had some news that was relevant to him? But he didn’t. Which means he was avoiding us.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why were you avoiding us, Crowley?”

Crowley sighed, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay, you’ve got me.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Dean asked, baffled. “Crowley?”

“There was a bit of a... _rebellion_ , I’ll admit it,” Crowley announced, a little sheepishly. “That’s why Elizabeth and my other prisoners escaped. The guards let them out on purpose. They were supposed to depose me. Of course I saw them off, but it wasn’t my finest hour.”

“Why were they rebelling?” Castiel demanded, somehow looking pissed and powerful despite being covered in bruises and wearing a sling. Again, it seemed he knew something that Dean didn’t; he was radiating certainty.

“They were rebelling because I was doing my job,” Crowley snapped, suddenly annoyed. 

“And what would that be?”

“ _Torturing,_ ” said Crowley. “Lots of torturing. I had torture coming out of my ears. There, are you happy now?”

Castiel leaned forward in his chair. For once, he didn’t even wince in pain. “And why, exactly, were you torturing, Crowley?” he asked pointedly, his voice low and dangerous.

Crowley huffed, then slid off the table and walked away. He stood for a few moments with his back to them both, then turned, spreading his hands wide. “Alright, I’ll come clean. This is bloody embarrassing, but... I suppose you deserve to know.”

“Know _what?_ ” Dean asked, frustrated.

Crowley put his hands in his pockets. “The reason my demons rebelled was because I was punishing them. Vast swathes of them, in fact. Hundreds, if not thousands. They all needed to be shown that you _don’t keep secrets from the bloody King of Hell._ ”

“And the secret...?” asked Castiel, his voice so deep it sounded painful. Something about the way he spoke made Dean think he already knew damn well what it was.

“You,” Crowley grunted. “Your little holiday. You were taken and chained up and not a single one of my demons told me about it. Five bloody years they had you, right under my nose, and nobody said a dicky-bird.”

Dean drew in a breath of shock. “Wait, are you joking? How could they keep that a secret when every supernatural creature in the country knew about Cas? All that time, you seriously didn’t know?”

Crowley gave him his best indignant expression. “You really think I’d have kept that a secret from you and your brother? You asked me a million times if I knew where Castiel was, and I didn’t have the foggiest idea. If I’d known I’d have milked your gratitude for all it’s worth. Why would I pass up on an opportunity like that? To have the Winchesters owe me a mighty favor? No, my demons kept it hidden from me, right up until you freed your poor little sex puppy and I got wind of what had been going on.” His face hardened. “I had to teach a lot of demons a lot of lessons. Word got around, and they weren’t happy. I’ve just finished putting out the fires – Lizzie is my last bonfire.”

Dean glanced over at Castiel, who was staring at Crowley with an unreadable expression. 

“I didn’t know,” Crowley said, suddenly sounding earnest. He met Castiel’s eyes. “I honestly didn’t know. I’m a demon, we all know that, and I do things you find repugnant on a regular basis, but keeping you chained up like that? Selling you to the highest bidder? That’s not my style. I was furious. I’ve spent the past year tracking down every demon responsible and making them suffer.”

There was a heavy, loaded silence. Then Castiel looked down. “Thank you,” he said.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Crowley said. “I just don’t like my demons to hide things from me.” 

But there was something about the way he said this that made Dean wonder if that was true. For a moment there – just a quick, fleeting moment – Crowley had almost sounded genuinely sorry.

Wow. Sometimes the fact the King of Hell was _almost_ their friend blew Dean’s mind.

“So what time is it?” Crowley asked, changing the subject clumsily.

Dean glanced at his watch. “It’s nine.”

“I’ll be back just before midnight,” Crowley announced, and – after a long, searching look at Castiel – he disappeared.

“I always wondered if he knew,” Dean said. “All that time you were gone, he kept telling us he didn’t know anything... I always wondered if he was lying. And he wasn’t. Wonders will never cease.”

“Elizabeth must be trying to claim his crown,” observed Castiel. “She was part of a rebellion and defied him. He will definitely want her either dead or as good as dead, just to make an example of her.” He looked at Dean. “This does not bode well for Sam. He will take her down no matter what the cost.”

Dean ran a hand over his eyes. Three hours. In three hours he might have Sam back... or his brother could be gone for good. 

He sighed. “Did you see where the cat went?” 

 

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

There was no sign of Betsy – apparently the presence of a demon had freaked her out so much that she’d left the bunker entirely. Dean tried to discover where she’d entered the building but it was fruitless: there were too many nooks and crannies to explore. Although it didn’t matter if the wards were down right now anyway – they _wanted_ a demon to visit them.

If everything went well, Elizabeth Rathborne would willingly walk into the Devil’s Trap and then think Dean was going to hand her an angel blade to kill Crowley. 

Crowley, in turn, would play along, but then exorcise Sam when she least expected it.

It was a precarious plan. As Dean walked back to the library, he could already feel sweat rolling down the back of his neck from the tension. So much could go wrong. Crowley could kill his escaped demon prisoner without a thought for Sam. Elizabeth could realize something was up; she may even have guessed already. 

She could even bring a goddamned _angel_ with her as backup.

Dean hadn’t really had the time to process that revelation yet. There had barely been any angels on Earth for half a decade: there was nothing for them down here, and most had gone back up to Heaven once it opened for them again. He’d only run across a couple of them in all the time Castiel had been missing – one in Denver who’d killed a bunch of demons just before Dean and Sam had arrived to do it themselves; it had looked at them scornfully and left without a word. Then there was the female angel who had told them that Castiel was hanging out in a gay bar. That was it. The angels just weren’t concerning themselves with the affairs of mortals any more. 

So why had this one helped Elizabeth steal Sam’s body? Why had it enabled the demon to go on a killing spree? And what was the deal with Castiel’s grace being taken from him? 

There was a story there, but Dean was too tired to care right now. 

He just wanted his brother back. 

 

* * *

 

Castiel was still sitting at the library table when he arrived, bent over a piece of paper, writing something very carefully. He was concentrating hard, and Dean suddenly wondered if angels were ambidextrous, because his right arm was strapped to his chest and he was writing with his left hand. Then again, Dean couldn’t remember if Castiel was left or right-handed to begin with, so he shook off the thought and went and sat opposite him.

“You’re not going to like this,” he said.

Castiel looked up, frowning. It seemed weird that he still had bruises on his face; Dean was so used to seeing his injuries disappear in a matter of hours.

“What won’t I like?” Castiel asked.

Dean closed his eyes, gathering himself, then opened them again. “I don’t want you here when she arrives, Cas. You’re not an angel any more, you’re injured and I don’t want you to get even more hurt than you already are. If the worst happens and all this goes to crap, you won’t be able to help and you won’t be able to defend yourself. You need to leave. I can’t worry about you as well as Sam.”

Castiel stared at him silently for a few moments, then said calmly, “That’s logical.”

Dean blinked. “Wait, what? Really? I thought this was going to be a fight.”

“You’re right: I am of no use physically. I can barely stand, I can only use one arm, and the pills I’ve been taking have made me sleepy.” 

“Okay,” Dean said, feeling rather stunned. “So, uh, you need to go. I can help you get to the car. Do you think you can drive? Can you move your legs enough?”

To his surprise, Castiel suddenly laughed. It was short and sharp, almost a bark, and Dean couldn’t remember ever hearing him make a sound like that before. “No, I wouldn’t be able to drive, Dean,” he said, and a grin slowly formed on his face. It wasn’t a nice grin. It was bitter, almost angry. “But I’m not going anywhere. Sam is my family too, and I’m going to be here for whatever happens to him.”

“Cas, I _can’t protect you,_ ” Dean snapped, annoyed at his stubbornness.

“It’s not your job to protect me – it’s our job to protect Sam. So I’m going to be here to help in any way I can, even if it’s nothing more than calling that demon names to distract her for you.”

Dean had a flashback to the thing inside Sam leaning against Castiel on the wall, making him scream as she pressed her thumbs into his pelvis with superhuman strength. He couldn’t go through anything like that again – his focus had to be his brother. “Please, Cas, I’m begging you – this is too dangerous,” he pleaded. “Don’t be here.”

Castiel handed him the piece of paper. “Draw these runes in blood in the four corners of this room, then hide them behind furniture. She can’t know they’re there. They’ll keep her powered down if she has found a way to drink and use my grace after all. And if she brings an angel with her... they’ll help.”

Dean looked at the paper, then back at him. “You can’t stay, Cas.”

“If this situation was reserved, would you leave? Don’t even try to pretend you would.”

Dean swallowed, knowing that he’d stay. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” Castiel sighed, then ran his good hand over his face. “We have an hour until midnight. She told us once that she appreciated us being early, so she may arrive before we expect her to. We should prepare.”

Realizing he wasn’t going to win this argument, Dean went to draw some runes.

 

* * *

 

Elizabeth Rathborne, clad in the body of Sam Winchester, appeared in the middle of the library at precisely 11.53pm. 

She was covered in blood and holding a very large machete.

Dean jumped to his feet with the Colt in his hand, while Castiel tensed in his chair on the other side of the table, his angel blade at the ready. 

“Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” Sam said, looking them both up and down with disdain. “Where’s Crowley? Are you sure he’ll come?”

“Oh, he’ll be here when I tell him we have you,” Dean snapped, scowling. “But first I want to make sure our deal is binding.”

Sam rolled his eyes and threw the machete to the floor, where it landed with a loud _clang_. Dean tried not to think about where all the blood had come from. “In principle, our deal is binding,” Sam said in a bored voice. “I’m going to give you your brother back, safe and sound, as long as you let me kill Crowley. The only change to the deal is that I don’t have your filthy angel whore’s grace any more. There’s nothing I can do about that. He can’t have it back.”

Dean caught his breath and looked over at Castiel. The angel was staring up at Sam, his eyes narrowed in that calculating look Dean knew so well. He didn’t seem surprised. 

“You couldn’t drink it, could you? So you gave it to your angel friend.”

Sam quirked a smile at Castiel. “I see you figured out who’s been giving me some pro tips. And yes, I tried and tried, but your polluted essence just made me sick. I suppose I should have expected as much, coming from a host as putrid and depraved as you, _homosexual._ ”

Hearing his brother spit out that word as a curse was so unexpected and bizarre that Dean couldn’t even feel offended. “Seriously, lady, what’s with you?” he asked, amazed. “You’re an entire ocean of crazy wrapped in one package.”

“And it’s a package you want back so very, very much,” Sam told him, smiling crookedly; for a moment, he looked so much like the old Sam that Dean had to swallow down his grief. “It would be such a shame if it got returned to you... broken.”

Dean fell silent. Their eyes locked for a few moments. Then Sam tilted his head. “So you need me to walk into this trap?” He gestured to the red paint on the floor before him.

“Yes,” Dean gritted out. “And then you wait for Crowley.”

“And you make sure I get that?” Sam nodded at the blade in Castiel’s hand.

Castiel looked at the weapon. “It’s all yours once Crowley gets close enough,” he said, and handed it to Dean, who pointed the blade at Sam threateningly. 

“And then I get my brother back. We. Have. A. Deal. Don’t forget that.”

Sam studied him, apparently searching for a sign that he was lying. _Please don’t see through this, Sammy,_ Dean thought frantically, knowing she could read his brother’s mind. _Please believe that we’re willing to kill Crowley for you. Please believe me. Don’t tip her off._

There was a pause, and then – with exaggerated slowness – Sam stepped into the Devil’s Trap.

Dean felt his heart almost stop. _They had her._ Even if everything went wrong somehow, she was stuck in that trap until they decided to let her out. 

Now all she had to do was keep Sam safe and well while she was in there.

“There,” said Sam, his tone defiant. “Now fetch me the King of Hell.”

Dean pulled out his phone and called Crowley. He tried to make it sound as though Crowley wouldn’t have been expecting the call, playing his role and hoping for all he was worth that Sam wouldn’t see right through him. 

“We’ve got your lost nutcase,” he said, when Crowley answered. “Get here now and exorcise her ass so I can have my brother back.”

“I do so love it when you tell me what to do, daddy,” Crowley replied, putting on a fey, girlish voice. “Makes me go all gooey inside.”

And then he was suddenly standing in front of the trap, staring at Sam with a smug look on his face. 

Dean held his breath, lowering the phone from his ear. 

Everything had been leading to this.

“Ah, Elizabeth,” Crowley said, breezily. “So good to see you. Been keeping well? How’s the blood cleanse going? Looks like it’s done wonders for your figure.”

To her credit, the demon inside Sam actually tried to look as if she had been caught unawares by Dean and Castiel. Playing her own part in turn – thinking she was fooling Crowley – she snarled and tested the edges of the trap, wincing as she met resistance. 

“If you’re going to kill me, do it now,” she snapped, somewhat melodramatically.

Crowley pursed his lips. “Is that what you’d prefer? That I kill you stone-dead? Perhaps with that handy Colt on the table over there? My dear, that’s the coward’s way out.” He took a step forward, his toes touching the edge of the trap. “You led a rebellion that nearly took my throne from me. You ate some of my best demons. Do you really think I’d just end it all for you? I have standards to keep up. Examples to make. You need to suffer, my little buttered crumpet.”

“Figure all this out later – I want my brother back,” Dean snapped, also coming over to the edge of the trap. He deliberately held the angel blade loose in his grip, making it look as though he could toss it to Sam inside the trap at any time. He saw his brother’s eyes flash dark in response. 

_She doesn’t suspect,_ he thought. _It’s working. Now it’s just down to Crowley to end this quickly, before she can react._

Crowley stared at Sam, his expression thoughtful. The demon inside Sam stared back. For a few moments, Dean thought he could feel a crackle in the air – their hatred for each other, brought into physical existence. 

He held his breath. 

_“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,”_ said Crowley, slowly and deliberately.

“You’re exorcizing me?” Sam laughed, looking genuinely delighted. “You really think you can speak those words and not feel pain yourself? And do you actually think that old nonsense will work on someone as powerful as me?”

“No,” said Crowley, smiling dangerously. “I’m just pulling your leg, Lizzie dear. But _this_ will.” 

He yanked a piece of yellow stone from his pocket; it looked like the largest chunk of amber Dean had ever seen. Crowley dropped it on the outer line of the Devil’s Trap, then started to chant words Dean had never heard before – although there were some familiar Latin terms in there, so perhaps it was some kind of bastardization of an ordinary exorcism. 

Whatever it was, it was strong enough to make Sam shudder and cry out in fury, clutching his head. He staggered against the invisible back wall of the trap, hissing in pain, before turning to Dean.

“Give it to me!” Sam yelled, holding out his hand for the blade.

Dean stared at him silently for several long, tension-filled seconds. Then he took a deliberate step backwards.

In a heartbeat, Sam recognized his deception. He opened his mouth to speak... but suddenly bent double, clutching at his stomach. Strange red-brown smoke started to pour from his lips. Crowley’s voice rose, his words angry and insistent, and the stone on the edge of the Devil’s Trap started to glow. It occurred to Dean that perhaps it was some kind of device to magnify the exorcism, to make it stronger, but he wasn’t sure.

“I’ll kill your brother!” shrieked Elizabeth around the smoke, Sam’s voice sounding like it was tearing apart in his throat.

“Get her out of him _NOW!_ ” Dean yelled, glaring at Crowley, who was frowning from the effort of casting the spell. 

Sam fell to his knees. “Stop him or I’ll tear your brother to shreds!”

“ _Crowley! Do it!_ ”

But even as Dean spoke, Crowley’s eyes narrowed and he lost the rhythm of the words, shaking his head as though something was interfering with his speech. His forehead was suddenly running with sweat.

“Dean!” Across the table, Castiel had leapt to his feet, injuries be damned. He was staring at Sam in horror.

Dean turned back to the trap in time to see the demon somehow, impossibly, managing to suck some of the smoke back into its lungs again. Sam’s face was twisted in concentration and pain; it was clearly agonizing, but the demon inside was fighting back, battling against the exorcism, standing up to Crowley with every atom of her being. 

Crowley grunted and staggered backwards. The stone on the floor stopped glowing. 

As Dean stared, horrified, Sam slowly climbed to his feet again, his eyes a solid black.

“She’s too strong,” Crowley gasped, sounding more surprised than annoyed. “I don’t know how – this is a nuclear-level exorcism, but... I can’t do it.”

“How would you like to hear your brother’s neck-bones snap, Deanie-darling?” hissed Sam, tilting his head dangerously to one side, hands clenching into fists.

“Please don’t hurt him,” Dean begged, feeling his entire world turn upside-down. “Please – I’ll let you go, I’ll do anything, but please don’t hurt him!”

“If you kill Sam, you will have nothing left to bargain with,” Castiel said, his words infuriatingly calm and precise. “And I will make sure you stay in that trap for all of eternity.”

“And how will you do that? You’re not an angel any more. You can’t watch me forever. And besides...” Sam’s eyes, black and glistening, settled on Dean’s face. “I don’t have to kill him to make you let me go.”

There was a gut-wrenching _snap_. Suddenly Sam was on his knees on the floor and clutching his forearm. He bellowed in pain, his eyes brown, everything about him totally human. 

“Sammy?” Dean cried, recognizing his brother in an instant.

“I can’t fight her,” Sam groaned, staring up at him with hopeless eyes, gasping for breath around the pain that must have been screaming from his arm. “You have to kill her, Dean, forget about me! Just kill her! Please, don’t bargain with her – what she’s done, you can’t let her get away with it, Dean, don’t–”

And then suddenly his eyes were black again and the demon was pulling him to his feet.

“I will break every bone in his body if you don’t let me out of this trap,” said Elizabeth. “When I’m done with that, I’ll tear at every one of his billions of nerves until he makes sounds they don’t even make in Hell. You let me out of this trap now, Dean Winchester, so I can kill the King of Hell and take my place on his throne as the true Second Coming.”

Crowley hadn’t moved, but at these words he glanced across at Dean and looked amused. “Bless her little cotton socks,” he said. “I might not be able to exorcise her, but she isn’t strong enough to kill me.”

“She’s strong enough to kill Sam,” Dean snapped back at him, despairing. 

“Eh,” said Crowley, shrugging. “Probably.” 

He was frustratingly calm given the scene that was playing out before him. But of course he was calm. He didn’t care if Sam died or not. He had nothing to lose here but his pride.

“I’m going to count to three and then your brother’s spinal cord will be severed,” Elizabeth proclaimed, Sam’s eyes so black now that Dean could almost see himself reflected in them.

“No, please–”

“One...”

“There must be another way–” Castiel began.

“Two...”

“Sammy, fight back!” 

“Three...”

There was nothing else for Dean to do. He raised the angel blade, preparing to throw it for Elizabeth to catch. 

_He had no choice._

But then _choice_ suddenly walked through the door to the bunker.

“Ooh, this all looks rather dramatic, doesn’t it?”

Dean swung his gaze round to the stairs, watching in shock as Rowena descended them. She was smiling broadly, heels clattering on the metal, a sequinned red gown trailing behind her. Her appearance was so unexpected that nobody spoke. Everybody in the room stood still, completely stunned, watching her _click-clack_ towards them until she joined them at the edge of the Devil’s Trap. 

Rowena’s enormous eyelashes flickered as she looked around. Her gaze darted down to the rock on the floor, the Devil’s Trap and the blade in Dean’s hand, taking it all in, seeming to understand the situation in seconds. Then she looked across at her son.

“Hello, Fergus,” she said, throwing Crowley a mock bow. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

“Mother,” Crowley returned, with just as much venom. “As always, you look like mutton dressed as mutton.”

“And you could lose a few of those pounds, my wee darling. Have you thought of setting up a gym in your throne room?”

“What is going on?” snapped Sam, finally regaining his voice.

“As it happens, my dear, I performed some services for these two chaps and I haven’t been paid. I can get a bit touchy about lingering debts.” Rowena raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at Castiel. “I hope you don’t mind me phrasing it _quite_ this way, but you seem rather... impotent... right now, my wee kitten. Do you still have my angel feather or not?”

Castiel nodded, looking a little dazed. 

“Och, good news!” Rowena cried, and clapped her hands in delight, black nail varnish glittering like the reflections in Sam’s eyes. “I suppose all that’s left now is to give this lady a good old tug, send her back where she belongs and then everything’s hunky dory.”

“Hunky... dory?” Dean repeated, feeling as though he was dreaming. A moment ago he’d been about to see Sam torn to shreds before him, and now Rowena was here, dressed as though she was about to go on stage in Vegas, talking as though they were all out on a jolly picnic together on a summer afternoon. His brain couldn’t keep up.

“From what I hear, you’re particularly good at... tugging,” Crowley told his mother. The words seemed carefully chosen, and Dean realized they were more than a double-entendre.

“I haven’t had any complaints, now you mention it,” Rowena replied, licking her blood-red, glittering lips. “Nothing like a good _grab_ and _pull_.”

And then, without another word – almost as if the movement had been choreographed – the witch and the King of Hell turned to face the demon in the Devil’s Trap and began to recite the spell in unison. 

This time the words were so forceful that Dean felt the hairs on his arms stand on end.

“NO!” screamed Elizabeth Rathborne, but it seemed the combined powers of Rowena and Crowley were no match for her. With astonishing speed – far too quickly for her to react – she collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, Sam’s fingers scrabbling against the floor, smoke tearing from her mouth. The smoke swirled around the amber stone, which glowed brighter and brighter until Dean had to look away, shielding his eyes.

When silence fell, he was almost too scared to look back again.

The stone was charred and black, like a lump of coal. Crowley bent over to pick it up, apparently not noticing – or caring – that it was hot, and smiled at it beatifically. 

“My dear Lizzie. All packaged up and ready to go. I can’t wait to uncork you once I get home. The things I have planned for you...”

Dean tore his eyes away from him and looked into the Devil’s Trap. Sam lay in a heap on the floor, unmoving. Dean took a step forward but Castiel suddenly grabbed his arm. 

“Wait!” 

Dean almost growled at him in frustration, but held still. “It’s Sam!”

“Is she definitely gone?” Castiel asked Rowena, his grip iron-tight on Dean’s arm. “I couldn’t see, it was too bright. Did she go? All of her?”

Rowena looked so self-satisfied that there was no doubt at all that the answer was yes. “Och, sweetie, _nobody_ can contain themselves when I give them a good old tug.”

“My mother, the slut,” Crowley hissed.

Shaking off Castiel’s hand, Dean dropped to his knees beside Sam. He rolled him over and placed a hand on the dried blood on his neck, holding his breath and praying to find a pulse. When he felt it, strong and powerful under his fingertips, the relief was so profound that he felt lightheaded.

“Is he alive?” Castiel asked from what seemed like miles away.

“He is,” Dean answered, but now he had other things to worry about. He’d seen the demon break Sam’s arm, but what else had she done? Was the rest of him okay? And... and what about his _mind_? For all he knew, she’d left nothing but an empty husk behind her. He ran his hands up and down his brother’s body, checking for more injuries, trying not to think about all the blood on his clothes and who it had come from. Then, satisfied that he couldn’t feel anything broken, he shook Sam a little and called his name. 

There was no response.

“I take it you didn’t have the stamina to exorcise her on your own,” Rowena was saying behind him. “You couldn’t... keep it up, some would say. Aren’t you glad mummy came along to lend a nice, firm hand?”

“Yes, expect my undying love and gratitude,” Crowley sneered back. “Where did you learn that spell, anyway, you nosy old harridan? That was one of mine and I’ve only used it twice.”

“I have my sources, Fergus dear. You can’t keep secrets from me. A mother always knows.”

“Sam!” Dean cried, ignoring the conversation, and he slapped his brother on the cheek as hard as he dared. 

Sam flinched, trying to move away from his hand. 

“Sammy? _Sam?_ ” Dean thought he was going to explode. Would Sam actually wake up? Would he know him? Would he be okay?

When it happened, it happened quickly. His brother’s eyes flickered open. He gulped in a sharp, guttural breath and sat bolt upright, then yelped in pain and grabbed his broken arm. A moment later he dropped it again and threw his good arm around Dean, pulling him close with more strength than Dean would have given him credit for, given that he was only one-handed. 

“Dean,” Sam gasped in his ear, burying his face in his shoulder. “Oh my god, Dean, you did it, you actually did it. She’s gone... I can’t believe it.”

“You know I’d never give up on you, Sammy,” Dean told him, holding him as tightly as he dared, burying his face in his hair. Sam didn’t smell like Sam, though: he smelled of blood, sweat and something else, something alien, but Dean didn’t care. 

He was alive and warm and talking. 

He was back.

There was a short silence, and then Crowley’s voice floated down from above them. “Isn’t this touching? Like the end of that movie with the dogs and the cat who find their humans again. You know the one... _The Incredible Journey_. I very nearly teared up when I watched that. Almost did myself an injury trying to keep the bile on my insides rather than my–”

“Are you okay, Sam?” Castiel interrupted him, sounding worried. 

Sam gulped in several huge breaths and leaned back, releasing Dean reluctantly. He looked down at his arm, cradling it gingerly, and shuddered. Then he glanced at Dean and up to Castiel, blinking hair out of his eyes. Dean followed his gaze, seeing that Castiel was on his feet but leaning heavily on the back of a chair, clearly in immense pain but staring at Sam with a concerned expression. Dean felt a rush of warmth for him: he could’ve left, could’ve gone somewhere safer, but he’d stayed despite being in such a state.

And it had all worked out. Dean couldn’t believe it. 

“I’m kinda messed up, but I think I’ll be okay,” Sam said slowly, and Dean noticed – with a stab of worry – that his eyes weren’t as focused as he’d like them to look. “But... Elizabeth, she... those people need help, we gotta get to them. We have to save them, Dean.”

“Save who? What’s goin’ on?”

Sam stared down at his bloody clothes. “She was halfway through... she was... there are still some survivors, but they were... hanging... bleeding out. They need our help, we have to get to them...”

“Where are they?” Dean asked, understanding, but then he had to put a hand on Sam’s cheek to hold him steady as he swayed. “Hey! Hey, stay with me, Sammy. Where are they?”

“A black church... Poughkeepsie... somewhere around a lake, and there was a school and... an auto shop nearby... We have to get there, they’re dying, Dean, they’re dying...”

Sam seemed to be losing consciousness, his eyes drifting shut, so Dean pulled him into a hug and stared up at Castiel. “We gotta call the cops, they need to find that church.”

Crowley tossed the black rock into the air and caught it again, a huge grin on his face. “Forget it. I’ll go. I can be there in two shakes.”

“You don’t care about human lives, Crowley,” Castiel snapped at him, apparently incredulous.

“Yes, well. I’ve got my favorite little maniac back, which means I’m having a very good day. So I feel like doing something nice for once. I’ll go save those fragile, bleeding darlings and I’ll also make sure there’s no evidence Sam was ever there. How does that sound? I’d say we’re more than even after this. A favor for a favor.”

“Thank you,” Dean said, still cradling his brother. He meant it.

Crowley glanced across at his mother. “I would say it’s been a pleasure, mommie dearest, but you taught me not to lie.” He snapped his fingers. “Wait, no: you taught me _to_ lie. Never mind.”

And he was gone.

“I think your brother needs a nice hot toddy to wake him up,” Rowena observed, putting her hands on her hips. “Poor lamb, he looks like he’s been in all the wars.”

“I need to get him to bed,” Dean said, and – with an effort – managed to pull Sam to his feet. His brother was only half-conscious, mumbling something Dean couldn’t hear, and his stomach swirled with worry. He’d be fine after some rest though, wouldn’t he? He was just in shock, and he’d just had his arm broken. In a few hours he’d be right as rain again. He had to be. 

Dean remembered the demon saying she’d snap Sam’s spinal cord. 

Everything was a damn sight better than it could have been.

“So am I going to get that pesky feather or not?” Rowena asked Castiel, as Dean half-dragged, half-walked Sam out of the room. “Given my recent impersonation of the cavalry coming to save the day, I think I deserve one or two more. Plus I charge late fees. Do you even have wings at the moment? Can you procure any more for little old me?”

“You can have one feather,” Castiel said, sounding tired. “Take it or leave it. It’s all I have. I have no wings. I was supposed to get my grace back today, but... it didn’t work out.”

“Oh really?” Rowena said, sounding slightly perkier than before. “What a shame. My poor wingless cherub.”

“I am not a cherub.”

 _Dammit, Cas,_ Dean thought, as he helped his brother along the corridor to his room. _Now Rowena knows your grace is out there and she’s gonna go look for it. That’s exactly the kind of thing she could use in a spell. And it’ll come back to bite us on the ass if she finds it._

“Dean,” Sam murmured from beside him, and then Dean forgot about everything except getting him into his room and onto his bed. After some awkward maneuvering, he managed to get him flat on his back, then left him for a few moments to fetch their medical kit. When he returned, Sam was awake again, blinking up at the ceiling with that worrying, unfocused gaze.

“Hey,” Dean said, sitting on the bed beside him. “How’re you feeling? No lying, I need to know the truth.”

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. He lifted a hand and rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes. “I’m so tired,” he said. “She never let me sleep. She made me watch it all. Everything. I couldn’t look away. She... she... killed kids, Dean. And I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t look away...”

Remembering the photos he’d seen of the tiny bodies hanging from the beam in the barn a few weeks ago, Dean put a hand on Sam’s neck and held it there. “I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry.”

His brother’s eyes opened again. They were bloodshot but reliably, familiarly brown. Dean pictured them as black pools and swallowed, relieved. At least that part was over. Now he just had to get Sam’s head back together.

“I saw her whole life,” Sam whispered, so quietly that Dean had to lean in closer. “It wasn’t just... the last few weeks. I saw everything. It was... it was like being back in Hell, what she did... she was... insane...”

“Yeah, gotta say: that’s not really a shock to hear.” 

“There was an angel...”

Dean met his eyes, intrigued. “What do you know about it? Who was it?”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know much. When they were together, that was... the only time I wasn’t allowed to listen. But it was... it was the one we met, the... one who found Cas for us all those months ago. It was her.”

Dean blinked, surprised, remembering the woman they’d accidentally saved from being captured by other angels, who’d given them Castiel’s location in return. “Okay, that’s weird,” he said. “She seemed to want us to help Cas. But she was on the run from her own kind. Is that why she teamed up with a crazy demon chick?”

“There’s... more,” Sam murmured, closing his eyes again. “She’s the one...”

Dean waited. “The one what?” he asked after a small pause. 

“She’s the one... who gave Cas to the demons all those years ago. She betrayed him. She was... proud of it.”

That stopped Dean dead. 

An _angel_ had been responsible for everything that had happened? All that violence, all that misery, all that... that... _rape_... caused by one of Castiel’s own kind? 

He knew the angels fought each other, that they could kill and maim, but what angel could do something so terrible to Castiel... _deliberately?_

“I’m so tired,” moaned Sam, rolling his head on the pillow. “I want to sleep, but all I can... see... is... those kids... there were kids, Dean, she killed children, it was... I couldn’t stop her, I tried, but I couldn’t stop her...”

“Shhhh, it’s alright, it’s over now,” Dean said, forgetting about angels entirely. He took Sam’s hand, squeezing it tightly, willing his own strength into him. “It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay. It’s in the past. Get some sleep. Come on, Sammy, go to sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

“Dean... Dean, she...”

But he didn’t say anything else, and Dean watched, grim-faced, as his bloodsoaked little brother passed out to dream of killing children with his bare hands.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part of this series, _Let’s Blow This Thing And Go Home_ , will be posted in due course. And yes, I’m stupidly amused by that title. :P


End file.
